.,,,...,,,  . 
( i  1  i  1 1  U  U) '  U  U  It  '•  H  i 

A  . , ; !  uu  i  mi  u  u 

i  ( -•  ,  \\\  3<  i !  U  M  H  1 1  '«  H 


( U  \  i  0  M  I  U '.  1  U  M  t  i  H  U  U 
I'.mUU1 !':  l'i  MUUHUH 

mmiuiunuMunufu 


vi 


m 


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nXvuiXuiOtyui 


iVAYu  u  u  u  u uu>  u  lllu  lu  U '  lu  0  u ' 

M§»&Mkfc\ 


THE    FOREST. 


THE    FOEEST 


J.  Y.    HUNTHSTGTOlSr, 

AUTHOR    OF    "ALBAN"    AND    "LADY   ALICE." 


Vago  gia  di  cercar  dentro  e  dintorno 
La  divina  FOEBSTA  spessa  e  viva. 

II  Purgatorio. 

A  milk-white  Hind,  immortal  and  unchanged, 
Fed  on  the  lawns,  and  through  the  forest  ranged. 
Hind  and  Panther. 

This  is  the  forest  primeval. 

Evamgelint. 


EEDFIELD: 

CLINTON    HALL,    NEW    YORK. 
1852. 


ENTERED,  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1852, 
BY  J.  8.  KEDFIELD, 

In  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  United  States  District  Court  for  the  Southern 
District  of  New  York. 


Stereotyped  by  BILLIN  &  BROTHERS,  No.  20  North  William-street,  N.  Y. 


f 


PREFACE. 


WHILE  tlie  regular  march,  of  civilization,  spread 
ing  like  a  "fire  among  the  trees"  — to  use  the 
fine  comparison  of  a  native  poet  —  has  devoured 
the  huge  forests  of  North  America,  and  replaced 
them  with  cultured  territories  fifteen  hundred 
miles  deep  from  the  Atlantic  coast,  in  the  nor 
thern  part  of  the  State  of  'New  York,  girt  by 
a  belt  of  villages,  rich  pastoral,  and  well-farmed 
agricultural,  districts,  lies  a  region  still  nearly 
as  wild  as  when  Cooper  spoke  of  it  as  unknown 
save  to  the  Indian  and  the  hunter. 

A  few  years  ago  it  happened  that  I  visited 
this  romantic  country  with  an  artist.  We  were 
both  fond  of  sport,  and  both  extremely  domestic 
in  our  habits.  So  we  took  with  us  not  only 

M501475 


PREFACE. 


our  guns  and  fishing  tackle  (although,  strictly, 
I  was  a  borrower  there)  but  also  the  fairer 
companions  of  a  summer  excursion  we  were 
just  completing.  Naturally,  a  good  many  pic 
turesque  scenes  and  lively  incidents  grew  out 
of  this,  and  as  I  was  then  fresh  from  the  pub 
lication  of  a  romance,  I  planned,  and  wrote  the 
commencement  of  the  present  story,  while  not 
yet  out  of  the  woods. 

It  was  here,  in  fact,  that  "Alban"  should 
have  begun,  and  the  youthful  life  of  the  hero 
should  have  been  made  an  episode.  The  world 
knows,  that,  on  the  contrary,  it  swelled  under 
my  unskilful  hands,  into  a  narrative  longer  than 
would  have  been  needed  for  a  complete  story; 
and  perhaps  I  ought  here  to  say  a  few  words 
in  regard  to  it. 

It  is  the  mental  history  of  a  young  Puritan 
and  the  most  beautiful  and  best-drawn  charac 
ters  in  it  are  Puritans,  who  lived  and  died  such  - 
and  if  an  element  of  satire  mingles  in  the  lovely 
picture  of  their  piety,  remember  there  is  no  true 
satire  without  a  basis  of  sympathy  and  love. 


PREFACE.  7 

It  is  a  glimpse  of  the  human  heart,  seen  like 
the  blue  sea  off  soundings  (which  has  puzzled, 
and  worse,  our  landsmen  critics)  with  an  ugly 
and  awful  FACT  of  human  nature  ever  and  anon 
surging  up  to  the  surface,  like  a  monster  of  the 
deep,  and  showing  its  dark  form  for  a  moment 
in  the  leaping  sun-light,  then  disappearing  to 
seek  its  native  depths.  It  makes  you  dizzy — - 
the  unsteady  motion,  the  sun  dancing  in  the 
firmament,  the  masts  describing  segments  of  cir 
cles  in  the  sky,  the  good  ship  "  heeled  over," 
and  almost  laid  on  her  beam  ends,  under  the 
press  of  her  cloud-like  canvass,  and  threatening 
every  moment  to  take  in  a  flood  over  her  bows, 
and  the  sight  of  these  sea  monsters  sporting  in 
the  brine  ?  Yet  out  of  these  visions  and  per 
ceptions  of  nature,  (our  own  abysmal  nature 
in  a  turmoil,)  and  the  struggle  to  maintain  the 
balance  of  the  soul,  spring  virtues  and  a  purity 
of  conscience  of  which  the  world  has  but  a  faint 
idea. 

The  sentiment  that  "underlies"  the  narra 
tive  is  the  beauty  of  justice,  and  its  necessity 


8  PREFACE. 

to  man.  The  most  absolute  need  of  humanity 
is  justice  —  inward  righteousness.  This  intimate 
and  inextinguishable  besoin  of  every  creature 
endowed  with  the  capacity  of  virtue,  is  that 
which  alone  explains  the  present  movement  to 
wards  a  system  which  pretends  to  possess  and 
dispense  all  the  treasures  of  spiritual  life.  In 
this  view  you  may  perhaps  condemn  the  direc 
tion  in  which  relief  has  been  sought,  but  the 
thirst  itself  you  must  sympathize  with  and  ap 
prove.  It  is  6>m,  after  all,  (if  there  be  such  a 
thing,)  that  we  wish  to  get  rid  of,  and  sanctity 
that  we  wish  to  acquire. 

But  pray,  who  implanted  this  infinite  sense 
of  need,  and  what  is  its  source  beneath  the  sky  ? 
Nothing  is  more  certain  than  that  no  stream  can 
rise  above  its  fountain.  Even  the  rain  descends 
from  Heaven.  The  tide  swells  from  the  attrac 
tion  of  the  moon  and  the  sun.  Never  from 
nature  has  proceeded  the  craving  for  a  super 
natural  good.  The  Sun  of  justice  alone  by  his 
powerful  attraction  has  drawn  up  this  mysterious 
spring-tide,  —  His  attraction,  joined  to  the  influ 


PREFACE.  9 

ence  of  that  lesser  but  nearer  Orb,  whose  light, 
though  only  reflected,  makes  Her  "fair  as  the 
Moon."  That  mysterious  attraction  in  the  spir 
itual  sphere  is  called  —  you  know  —  grace. 

Let  us  not,  then,  fear  to  trace  this  divine 
operation  in  a  human  heart.  Let  us  put  aside 
the  superficial  notion  which  demands  an  earthly 
chivalrous  perfection  in  a  hero.  Natural  virtue 
has  been  the  theme  of  a  thousand  novelists,  and 
is  a  pretty  thing  enough ;  but  infinitely  more 
beautiful,  in  our  eyes,  is  the  virtue  which  rises 
on  the  ruins  of  natural  weaknesses.  This  is  a 
study  worthy  not  of  men  but  of  gods. 

But  since  you  like  nature,  let  us  turn  to  her, 
too.  Neither  in  her  forest  solitudes,  nor  in  the 
paradisiacal  majesty  and  loveliness  of  man,  is 
she  estranged  from  us.  Art,  too,  is  ours,  and 
the  endless  variety  of  manners  in  the  social 
state ;  with  wit,  if  we  can  command  it,  and  gro 
tesque  humour,  which  the  generous  and  fearless 
artists  of  the  middle  ages  built  into  the  roofs  of 
cathedrals;  and  the  grace  of  the  ancient  Pa 
gan  mythology,  which  those  of  Italy,  under  the 


10  PREFACE. 

patronage  of  Popes,  nailed,  as  it  were,  like  a 
trophy,  to  the  bronze  doors  of  world-renowned 
basilicas  ! 

In  regard  to  the  present  volume,  it  may 
be  necessary  to  observe  that  the  scenes  and 
manners  it  describes  are  all  real,  although  I 
have  used  a  romancer's  license  in  placing  my 
Indian  village. 

The  incident  of  the  baptism  at  the  stake, 
spoken  of  in  one  place,  is  related  by  CJiarlevoix, 
but  Father  Isaac  Jogues,  who  performed  it,  was 
not  martyred  at  that  time,  although  his  com 
panions  were. 

This  holy  missionary  was,  however,  after 
wards  put  to  death  by  the  Mohawks,  and  his 
body  thrown  into  the  river  of  that  name  ;  and 
those  who  like  to  connect  other  associations 
than  those  of  mere  natural  beauty  with  our 
own  country's  scenery,  may  call  to  mind,  as 
they  are  swept  along  the  beautiful  valley  of  the 
Mohawk,  that  the  body  of  a  Christian  martyr 
has  rolled  down  those  far-gleaming  waters, 
when  they  passed  through  wild  woods  yet  de- 


PREFACE.  11 

voted  to  heathenism,  and  roved  by  the  fiercest 
of  all  the  native  tribes. 

I  have  also,  it  will  be  seen,  alluded  to  an 
other  actual  character,  Catherine  Tegahkowita, 
the  saint  of  the  Iroquois,  called  by  a  French 
Canadian  bishop,  the  Genevieve  of  New  France. 
She  died  in  the  odour  of  sanctity,  about  the 
year  1680,  and  many  miraculous  cures  are 
affirmed  to  have  been  wrought  at  her  tomb. 

o 

About  the  same  time,  or  rather  a  little  subse 
quently,  arose  the  persecution  in  which  many 
of  her  nation  and  of  her  own  sex  suffered  death 
and  tortures  for  the  name  of  Christ,  in  the  man 
ner  spoken  of  in  the  story,  where,  indeed,  the 
circumstances  are  much  softened. 

I  must  also  acknowledge  niy  obligation  to 
Mr.  Headley's  "Life  in  the  Woods"  for  one 
striking  incident,  and  in  one  place  for  a  trait  of 
description  so  beautiful  that  I  could  not  resist 
the  theft.  It  is  so  long  since  I  read  the  book 
that  I  have  a  right,  perhaps,  to  use  any  thing 
that  I  remember. 

The  mw*al  of  the  present  tale,  or  continua- 


12  PKEFACE. 

tion  of  a  tale,  is  the  old  adage  that  Matches  are 
made  m  Heaven :  —  for  this  is  a  love-story,  or  if 
you  please,  the  denouement  and  unknotting  of 
one.  A  true-lovers'-knot  will  never  untie,  till  it 
is  pulled  in  a  particular  way,  and  then  it  slips 
as  easily  as  a  common  bow.  So,  despite  the 
above-quoted  article  of  all  true  lovers'  faith, 
you  must  expect  the  sweet  and  chainless  human 
will  to  have  its  play;  and  may  the  practical 
deduction  of  every  one  of  us  be,  that  in  all 
circumstances  it  is  best  to  make  not  only  a  just, 
but  a  generous  use  of  ours,  leaving  the  result  to 
the  boundless  resources  of  "the  All-good. 
NEW  YORK,  Sept.,  1852. 


THE  FOREST. 


CHAPTBK    I. 


An  lateat  silvis  ? 

Dum  dubitat,  videre  canes ;  primusque  Melampus, 
Iclinobatesque  sagax  latratu  signa  dedere. 

OVID. 

An  hour  passed  by  without  a  sign 
Of  buck  or  doe  in  range  appearing. 

Vigil  of  Faith. 


IT  was  one  of  the  first  days  of  October ;  the  hour  was 
about  three,  post  meridiem.  A  thick,  whitish  mist,  the 
clearing  off  of  the  equinoctial,  had  veiled  the  sky  all 
day,  sometimes  had  descended  in  heavy  showers,  al 
ways  had  curtained  the  summits  of  the  sweeping 
mountains,  and  made  opaque  the  motionless  lakes, 
rendering  faint  and  uncertain  the  reflection  of  their 
wild  islets  and  wilder  shores,  thick  with  virgin  forests, 


14  THE    FOEEST. 

then  just  in  the  perfection  of  that  autumnal  glory 
peculiar  to  the  western  hemisphere.  So  rich  arid 
vivid,  indeed,  were  the  tints  of  the  boundless  foliage, 
that  even  under  that  sullen  fog  the  nearer  shores  of 
the  lakes  and  slopes  of  the  mountains  seemed  bathed 
in  a  glowing  sunset.  The  patches  of  hemlock  wind 
ing  among  the  frost-dyed  deciduous  trees,  appeared 
like  the  shadows  of  clouds  on  a  lofty  hill-side. 

The  mountains  were  the  branching  spurs  of  the 
great  Adirondack  chain,  which  runs  south-westerly 
from  the  northern  extremity  of  the  state  of  "New 
York,  and  divides  the  waters  which  fall  into  the 
Atlantic  from  those  which  empty  into  Lake  Ontario. 
The  lakes  imbosomed  in  their  deep  locks,  and  the 
innumerable  sisters  of  which  freshen  all  the  recesses 
of  the  Adirondack,  pour  out  their  abounding  waters 
chiefly  through  the  Eacket  and  Sacondaga  rivers, 
giving  source  in  the  one  to  a  great  feeder  of  the  St. 
Lawrence,  and  constituting,  through  the  other,  the 
high  reservoirs  of  the  Hudson. 

But  your  attention  is  more  immediately  directed 
to  a  thickly-wooded  point  at  the  lower  end,  or  outlet, 
of  one  of  these  wild  lakes.  Pine,  spruce,  hemlock, 
and  cedar,  here  mingle  their  stiff  branches  and  dark 
foliage  with  oaks,  beeches  and  maples,  as  if  they 
were  all  of  the  same  race.  Below,  the  scene  is 


THE    FOREST.  15 

choked  with,  underwood  and  huge  fallen  trunks ; 
some  deeply-mossed  and  decaying,  others  newly 
fallen.  As  the  light  grows  stronger  by  gazing,  you 
perceive,  sitting  upon  one  of  the  latter,  a  man,  ap 
parently  (as  novelists  say)  of  middle  age.  He  was 
not  remarkable  in  height.  A  spare,  but  well-pro 
portioned  frame,  was  set  off  by  a  hunter's  dress  of 
dark  gray  cloth,  with  large  pockets  and  huge  horn 
buttons,  carved  with  stags  and  guns.  Beneath  his 
fur  cap  appeared  a  sufficient  quantity  of  black,  sorne- 
what  curling  hair,  a  little  neglected,  perhaps,  and  a 
regular  aquiline  face,  dark  naturally,  but  by  exposure 
perfectly  bronzed.  The  eyes  of  the  person  we  de 
scribe  were  dark-gray  and  piercing,  and  their  glance 
was  perpetually  directed,  either  over  the  lake,  nearly 
the  whole  expanse  of  which  was  visible  from  the 
elevated  spot  where  he  was  stationed,  or  down  a 
particular  line  through  the  woods  on  his  left,  where 
a  sort  of  track  was  distinguishable  by  the  effects  of 
browsing  on  the  green  underwood. 

Under  the  partial  shelter  of  a  tall  hemlock,  at 
some  two  arm's-lengths  from  this  individual,  stood 
a  younger  man — indeed,  comparatively  a  youth  — 
taller,  and  equally  slender,  but  showing  a  finer  type 
of  his  species  by  a  more  symmetrical  development  of 
the  shoulders  and  an  elegant  massiveness  of  the  chest. 


16  THE    FOREST. 

His  garb  was  fashioned  much  like  that  of  his  com 
panion,  but  newer  and  more  trimly  worn ;  his  rather 
loose  and  easy  hunter's  jacket  or  frock,  of  dark  green 
corduroy,  being  buttoned  up  to  the  throat,  and  for 
a  cap  he  had  a  large  gray  felt  hat,  picturesquely 
slouched.  So  far,  and  in  respect  of  the  tawny  shot- 
bag  and  horn  powder-flask  slung  at  his  waist,  he 
had  the  exterior  of  a  hunter  or  backwoodsman,  bat 
his  features,  refined  by  meditation,  and  his  thought 
ful  dark  blue  eye,  as  much  as  the  clean  gloss  of  his 
chestnut  hair,  and  the  whiteness  of  his  hands,  and 
of  the  exposed  portions  of  the  neck,  plainly  testified 
that  he  belonged  to  civilized  life.  He  grasped  a 
double-barrelled  gun  with  a  careless  air,  (a  heavy 
rifle,  which  evidently  belonged  to  his  companion, 
rested  against  the  hemlock,)  and  he  cast  fewer 
glances  at  wood  or  lake;  his  eye  being  oftener  di 
rected  to  the  richly-coloured  eminences  that  rose  to 
a  mountain-height  round  the  shores  of  the  latter, 
making  it  just  like  a  punch-bowl. 

"  Six  hours  we  Ve  been  here,  Morrell,  and  have  n't 
heard  a  dog." 

"  The  rain  has  spiled  the  scent,"  replied  the  elder 
of  the  pair.  "I  guessed  likely  it  would.  Or  may 
be  the  dogs  is  running  at  the  other  end  of  the 
lake." 


THE    FOEEST.  17 

"  Any  way,  should  n't  we  hear  the  dog  before  see 
ing  the  deer  ?  For  I  see  you  keep  an  eye  always  on 
the  lake  or  the  runway." 

"  Maybe  not.  Yery  often  the  first  notice  you  get 
is  the  deer  jumping  through  the  brush,  and  splashing 
into  the  water." 

"Ah,  I  wish  one  would  come  jumping  down  the 
runway,"  said  the  young  man,  looking  at  his  caps  and 
feeling  the  hammers,  which  were  half-cocked.  "  I  'd 
have  two  chances  at  him  any  way.  I  say,  Morrell,  do 
you  never  chase  the  deer  ?  " 

"  Sometimes  in  winter,  where  the  snow  lies.  You 
would  n't  kill  a  deer  a  month,  that  way,  at  any  other 
season  of  the  year,  unless  it  was  by  pure  luck." 

"  We  have  not  had  much  lack  so  far.  One  little 
doe  at  Long  Lake." 

"  And  that  haul  of  trout  at  Piseco." 

"  True ;  that  was  splendid.  Eighty-four  trout  in 
three  hours,  with  the  fly,  weighing  ninety-eight  pounds. 
That  was  sport,  certainly." 

"  You  won't  often  see  better." 

"I  sha'n't  soon  forget  it.  Why,  the  water  was 
in  a  perfect  foam  with  their  leaping  round  the  boat. 
Such  beautiful  fellows !  Do  you  remember,  Morrell, 
when  I  had  two  whappers  on  at  once,  and  you  threw 
down  your  rod  to  take  them  in,  that  a  fellow  snapped 


18  THE    FOREST. 

at  your  fly  as  it  lay  on  the  water,  and  had  like  to 
have  carried  off  the  whole  concern,  rod,  reel,  and 
all ! " 

"  It  ain't  every  day,  at  this  season  of  the  year,  that 
one  gets  such  a  mess  of  brook  trout.  But  I  have  eat 
trout  enough  for  one  week.  I  want  to  taste  some 
venison.  We  are  bound  to  have  a  deer  to-day,  if  it  is 
only  for  the  dogs." 

"  We  ought  to  have  something  to  pay  us  for  stand 
ing  four  hours  in  the  rain." 

"Hark!  Mr.  Atherton,"  cried  Morrell,  "there's  a 
,  clog.'—  It 's  Courtney's !  " 

It  came  faintly  over  the  water;  then  it  became 
more  distinct,  a  deep  incessant  baying  echoing  among 
the  hills.  Atherton  showed  great  excitement. 

"Keep  cool,"  said  Morrell,  taking  his  rifle  from 
the  tree  against  which  it  was  leaning.  "  I  want  you 
to  kill  this  deer." 

"Is  it  coming  into  the  lake,  do  you  think?  " 

"Can't  tell  yet." 

There  was  a  sudden  leaping  of  a  dark  form  out 
of  the  low  wood  lining  the  shore;  then  a  splash. 
"  There 's  the  deer  !  "  said  Morrell. 

They  sprang  down  the  bank.  Morrell  had  to  hold 
the  young  man  back. 

"  Not  so  quick.     Let  him  get  a  little  way  out  mto 


THE    FOREST.  19 

the  lake.     If  lie  sees  or  hears  us,  he  will  put  back,  and 
ten  to  one  he 's  lost." 

A  shallow,  fragile,  flat-bottomed  boat,  constructed 
of  very  thin  plank,  and  capable  of  holding  scarcely 
more*  than  three  persons,  lay  partially  drawn  out  of  the 
water,  so  as  to  be  secured  by  its  bow  resting  on  the 
sand.  Morrell  made  Atherton  enter,  and  take  the  seat 
in  the  stern ;  then  cautiously  pushed  the  boat  out,  and 
lightly  sprang  in. 

"The  deer  is  going  up  the  shore,  instead  of  put 
ting  across.  I  am  mighty  afraid  we  shall  miss  him," 
he  said,  paddling  out  softly  and  slowly  into  a  reach 
of  shallow  water  covered  with  lily  pads  — the  broad, 
beautiful,  dark-green  leaves  of  the  water-lily. 

For  five  minutes  such  was  the  course  taken  by 
the  hunted  animal,  who  had  come  straight  down  to  the 
lake,  and  was  now  evidently  meaning  to  foil  the  scent 
by  swimming  a  certain  distance  along  the  shore,  and 
then  taking  to  the  woods  again.  But  another  boat 
emerged  from  the  shelter  of  a  jutting  point  crowned 
with  pines,  so  as  to  head  him  off.  For  a  moment  he 
seemed  doubtful  whether  to  go  ashore  again  at  once, 
or  boldly  cross  the  lake.  But  Morrell  now  rose  in  his 
boat,  and,  putting  one  hand  to  his  mouth,  imitated  the 
baying  of  a  stag-hound.  The  deer,  which  had  not  seen 
Morrell's  boat,  instantly  and  decidedly  turned  from  the 


20  THE    FOREST. 

shore,  and  struck  across  the  wide  rippling  sheet  for  the 
opposite  hills. 

"  We  've  got  him,  by  Jove,  and  a  noble  buck ! 
As  fine  a  pair  of  horns  as  I  ever  saw !  " 

Still  it  was  a  hard  chase ;  for  the  deer,  soon  discov 
ering  this  second  enemy,  redoubled  his  exertions,  and, 
the  distance  the  boat  had  to  get  over  being  twice  that 
to  be  swum  by  the  animal,  the  chances  were  against 
their  getting  a  fair  gun-shot  before  he  would  touch  bot 
tom  and  begin  to  jump  again.  On  the  other  hand,  the 
rival  party,  who  had  been  watching  the  lake,  were 
dashing  on  to  head  him  off,  if  possible,  and  shortly 
the  two  boats  and  the  deer  were  crossing  the  lake 
in  a  line,  so  that  neither  party  dared  fire  on  their  strug 
gling  game,  for  fear  that  a  scattering  buckshot  might 
take  effect  on  the  other.  The  deer  would  have  been 
lost  but  for  Morrell's  tremendous  rowing.  His  sinewy 
frame  rose  and  fell  in  the  slight  cockle-shell  with  a 
force  that  nearly  threw  it  out  of  the  water.  They  thus 
gained  about  three  yards  on  the  other  boat,  and  turned 
the  buck  a  little  off  his  course,  so  that  the  three  were 
no  longer  in  a  line.  Atherton  sat  in  the  stern,  his  gun 
cocked,  trembling  with  anxiety,  and  giving  notice 
every  minute  to  his  cooler  companion  of  the  rapid 
approach  of  the  beautiful  animal  to  the  shore. 

"  Do  n't  shoot  me,"  said  Morrell. 


THE    FOKEST.  21 

"No,"  said  Atherton,  "but  I  think  I  could  hit 
him  now.  Hal's  boat  is  out  of  the  range,  but  he 's  a 
good  way  off.  He 's  very  near  the  lily -pads  now !  " 

"  Fire,  then,"  said  Morrell. 

The  youth  raised  the  gun  to  his  shoulder.  The 
buck  gave  a  little  bound  in  the  water  at  the  sight :  the 
boat  also  leaped  forward  at  the  same  instant.  Crack 
went  the  report.  The  deer  rolled  round  on  itself,  and 
the  great  branching  horns  sunk  in  the  water.  In  a 
minute  the  boat  was  alongside,  and  Morrell  had  cut 
the  fine  creature's  throat.  Its  soft,  upturned,  beauti 
ful  eye  met  Alban's. 

"You've  put  it  into  him  well.  Three  shot  in  the 
back  of  the  head.  By  George!  Mr.  Atherton,  that 
was  first-rate.  I  expected  to  lose  him,  fully ;  and  see, 
in  another  minute  he  would  have  been  jumping. 
Ah,  ah !  but  we  were  bound  to  have  him,  for  we  have 
been  four  days  at  Louis,  and  we  could  n't  live  on  that 
salt  pork  any  longer,  no  how  you  can  fix  it." 

Henry  Atherton  came  up,  with  a  guide  rowing. 
One  of  the  dogs  was  in  this  boat. 

"  A  fine  buck,  eh  ?  Good  shot,  Alban.  How 
beautifully  he  sank  back  the  instant  you  fired.  One 
minute  so  full  of  life,  and  the  next  floating  here." 

"  It  was  your  dog,  Courtney,"  said  Morrell,  address 
ing  his  fellow-guide. 


22  THE    FOKEST. 

The  dog  —  a  stag-hound  of  pure  blood  —  was  al 
ready  in  the  lake,  and  swimming  towards  the  boats. 
Morrell,  showing  great  strength,  lifted  the  body  of  the 
deer  into  the  boat  without  assistance.  The  dog  was 
also  taken  in,  whining  and  panting,  and  then  both 
parties  set  out,  as  they  said,  for  "  home." 

It  was  a  row  of  some  two  miles  up  the  lake.  The 
sun  came  out  feebly,  and  gilded  the  wild  scene.  All 
was  wood  from  the  water's  edge  to  the  lofty  and 
finely  undulating  ridge  of  the  mountains,  except  two 
or  three  white  spots  among  the  deep-coloured  foliage, 
which  marked  projecting  cliffs.  The  lighter  boat  first, 
and  then  that  containing  the  deer,  turned  in  at  a  point 
marked  by  an  aged  hemlock,  profusely  hung  with  long 
gray  moss,  like  some  old  Indian  chief  with  wild  gray 
hair.  The  boats  dragged  in  the  water  grass ;  the  guides 
jumped  in,  mid-leg-  deep,  to  draw  them  ashore ;  the 
young  sportsmen  disembarked ;  the  guides  lifted  out 
the  deer. 

They  dressed  it  immediately  on  the  bank,  feeding 
the  dogs  with  the  offal.  The  dog  which  had  brought 
the  deer  in,  lapped  the  blood.  Finally,  the  saddle,  (that 
is,  in  the  language  of  the  lakes,  the  whole  of  the  two 
hind  quarters)  was  suspended  by  the  delicate  hocks 
from  the  branch  of  a  young  tree,  and  Morrell  took  the 
remainder  on  his  shoulders.  The  young  men,  who  had 


THE    FOREST.  23 

watched  the  operations  with  interest,  shouldered  their 
guns,  and  Courtney  took  Morrell's  rifle  as  well  as  his 
own.  So  they  moved  on  in  Indian  file,  by  a  path,  (if 
such  it  could  be  called,)  ascending  gradually  through 
the  wood,  and  which  was  indicated  merely  by  a  chip 
cut  off  from  the  trees  at  intervals  on  the  line  of  sight. 
In  about  five  minutes  they  reached  a  small  clearing,  or, 
rather,  circumscribed  thinning  of  the  forest,  where  a 
fire  of  logs  smouldered  in  front  of  an  open  shanty  of 
gray  bark,  upon  the  bank  of  a  gurgling  brook. 

The  whole  party  applied  themselves  to  the  prepara 
tion  of  the  evening  meal.  The  forest  rang  again  with 
the  blows  of  Morrell's  axe,  and  the  crash  of  the  young 
trees,  as  he  felled  them  for  fuel.  Alban  Atherton 
replenished  the  fire,  throwing  on  fresh  logs  with  a 
vigorous  arm,  and  bringing  those  already  half  burned 
into  such  a  position  that  the  air  speedily  kindled  them 
into  a  fierce  crackling  blaze.  Live  heaps  of  beech  and 
maple  coals  presently  dropped  under  the  flaming  logs. 
Meanwhile,  Henry  Atherton  had  suspended  a  kettle 
of  water  on  a  forked  stick  to  hang  in  the  hottest  fire, 
and  Courtney  cleaned  a  frying-pan,  by  boiling  water  in 
it,  while  Morrell  cut  slices  of  fat  pork,  which  he  placed 
on  a  huge  chip  of  white  hemlock  instead  of  a  plate.  A 
tin  teapot  was  produced  from  the  shanty,  and  promised 
a  grateful  beverage. 


24  THE    FOBEST. 

A  great  piece  of  bark,  laid  on  four  uprights  stuck 
in  the  ground,  and  much  warped  by  rain,  was  the 
table,  and  a  log  served  for  chairs.  White  chips  were 
the  plates.  While  Henry  was  cutting  bread  taken 
from  a  canvass  bag,  and  Alban  was  producing  some 
white  sugar  from  a  brown  paper,  voices  were  heard 
at  the  water-side :  the  dogs  barked ;  presently  the  new 
comers  appeared  —  St.  Glair,  and  the  guide  who  had 
put  out  the  dogs.  This  arrival  produced  a  hubbub 
of  conversation ;  questions  about  the  deer ;  about  the 
other  dog  who  had  chased  a  noble  buck  into  Piseco, 
as  the  new  guide  averred ;  and  congratulations  from  St. 
Clair  on  Alban's  success. 

In  the  midst  of  this  the  three  cousins  seated  them 
selves  at  the  bark  table,  and  the  guides  served  their 
repast.  The  first  course  was  brook  trout :  —  the  de 
licious  yellow  meat  was  offered  in  the  frying-pan  by 
Courtney.  Morrell  filled  the  teacups  with  rude  civility. 
This  was  followed  by  steaks  of  venison,  made  tender 
by  pounding,  which  possibly  might  not  have  been  so 
savory  as  if  they  had  been  dressed  with  wine  and 
currant  jelly,  and  served  on  silver  heaters  in  New 
York ;  but  eaten  with  the  appetite  of  the  forest  and  the 
lakes,  were  relished  as  wild  meat  is  never  in  cities.  A 
pitchy,  smoking,  bright  pine  torch,  and  the  flaming 
fire,  lighted  this  joyful  evening  meal.  The  guides  sue- 


THE    FOREST.  25 

ceeded  their  masters,  and  the  latter,  flinging  themselves 
upon  the  balsam  boughs  of  their  shanty,  discussed  the 
events  of  the  day  and  the  prospects  of  the  morrow. 
The  flame  of  their  fire,  and  its  curling  smoke  bright 
with  sparks,  went  up  before  them  among  the  trees. 

The  shanty,  which  may  require  description,  was 
but  a  sloping  roof  of  bark,  laid  on  rafters  of  saplings, 
the  lower  part  resting  on  the  ground,  and  the  other 
open  to  the  air.  The  fire  was  built  opposite,  so  that 
the  heat,  reflected  against  the  interior  of  the  roof,  beat 
down  on  those  reposing  beneath ;  for  this  rude  shelter 
was  only  adapted  for  repose,  not  being  sufficiently 
elevated  even  in  front  to  allow  a  man  to  stand  upright 
under  it.  The  floor  was  spread  with  fresh  balsam 
boughs,  forming  a  soft  and  fragrant  bed,  whereon  the 
young  men  and  the  guides  soon  stretched  themselves 
side  by  side,  with  their  heads  under  the  cool  roof,  and 
their  feet  to  the  fire.  The  dogs  enjoyed  a  separate  and 
ruder  shelter  opposite. 

But  first  the  guides  rebuilt  the  fire  for  the  night. 
Huge  logs  laid  one  on  another,  and  supported  by  stakes 
driven  into  the  ground,  formed  a  chimney  back.  Two 
large  stones  were  the  andirons,  on  which  the  long  green 
maple  fore-log  was  placed.  The  wood  was  then  piled 
on  to  burn  all  night  and  keep  the  shanty  as  hot  as 
could  be  endured.  The  last  ceremony  on  the  part  of 


26  THE    FOREST. 

the  guides  was  to  pass  from  one  to  another  a  certain 
mysterious  black  leathern,  or  elastic,  bag  or  bottle, 
which  they  applied  to  their  mouths,  absorbing  a 
draught  probably  intended  to  counteract  the  danger  of 
taking  cold  in  their  bivouac. 

St.  Clair,  who  had  been  tramping  the  woods  all  day 
to  help  start  the  dogs  and  watch  the  runways,  fol 
lowed  the  example  of  Morrell  and  Courtney,  by  pulling 
off  his  boots  and  stretching  himself  upon  the  balsam 
to  sleep.  Henry  and  Alban  Atherton  strolled  out  a 
little  way  into  the  forest,  where  they  could  mark  the 
wild  effect  of  the  shanty  fire.  The  third  guide,  Dun 
can  by  name,  had  departed,  having  a  cabin  of  his  own 
on  the  other  side  of  the  lake,  on  whose  shores  he  was 
the  sole  permanent  dweller. 

"  We  could  not  have  brought  the  ladies  here,"  said 
Henry  Atherton. 

"Oh,  impossible!"  replied  Alban.  "What  a  fear 
ful  screech  that  owl  has.  You  would  say  there  were  a 
hundred  fiends  in  the  forest." 

u  They  would  enjoy  this  scene,"  observed  Henry. 

"  The  fiends !  " 

"  Who  was  talking  about  fiends  ?  I  was  speaking 
of  the  ladies." 

"  Oh,  yes,  they  would  have  enjoyed  it,  I  dare  say. 
What  do  you  say,  Henry,  to  going  on  to  Indian 


THE    FOEEST.  27 

Lake,  before  we  return  to  Hart's?  For  my  part,  I  am 
just  in  the  humour  for  it.  I  should  like  to  penetrate 
as  far  as  Racket  Lake,  of  which  they  talk  so  much." 

"If  it  were  not  for  leaving  the  ladies  so  long. 
They  would  think  it  was  hardly  treating  them  fairly." 

"We  should  be  gone  two  weeks  instead  of  one. 
That  would  not  be  much.  But  I  think  it  would  be 
possible,  if  you  wished  it,  to  take  them  along  — say 
by  the  state  road  to  Louis,  and  then  in  boats." 

"  What  is  that  moving  on  the  right  ?  "  whispered 
Henry  Atherton. 

Something  was  certainly  moving  among  the  trees, 
though  concealed  from  them  by  brush.  The  young 
men  held  their  breath.  Presently  it  emerged  into  the 
gleam  of  the  fire, — one  —  two  dark  elegant  forms  de 
fined  against  a  light  background  of  illumined  brush 
—  a  doe  and  her  fawn. 

"  Beautiful !  do  n't  disturb  them." 
A  low  growl  was  heard  from  the  cltiente,  (as 
Cooper  calls  it,)  where  the  dogs  slumbered.  The  doe 
started  away.  At  her  first  bound  the  whole  wood 
rang  with  the  furious  and  sudden  voices  of  the  hounds ; 
quick  as  a  flash,  three  dark,  sinewy  forms  were  seen 
flying  over  the  logs  and  brushwood ;  the  hunters 
started  up  from  their  beds  of  balsam. 

"Range!  Sport!  Turk!     Here,  sir  I  Back,  sir!" 


28  THE    FOREST. 

The  clearing  was  in  an  uproar,  which  it  took  some 
time  to  subdue.  Two  of  the  dogs  soon  returned ;  the 
third  was  out  nearly  an  hour.  Henry  and  Alban 
Atherton  took  their  places  by  the  side  of  St.  Clair, 
who  had  slept  through  it  all.  Towards  morning  the 
fire  got  low.  Henry  took  cold,  and  snored.  Alban 
was  awakened.  He  perceived  that  it  was  either  snow 
ing  or  raining.  He  got  up,  dragged  a  long  heavy  log 
to  the  fire,  and  threw  it  on.  Courtney  started  up  with 
out  really  waking,  helped  him  with  the  log,  and  flung 
himself  back  on  the  boughs.  Alban  was  thirsty  and 
feverish  —  a  common  result  of  a  thorough  wetting  in 
the  day,  cured  by  a  venison  supper.  A  tin  mug,  full 
of  water,  stood  on  the  bark  table.  He  filled  it  fresh 
from  the  brook,  drank  once,  and  again,  and  then  re 
sumed  his  bed.  This  time  he  slept  soundly  till 
morning  light.  Eoused  by  the  clatter  of  the  guides 
preparing  a  venison  steak  for  breakfast,  he  threw 
aside  the  covering  from  his  feet,  and  sat  up.  By  the 
fire,  and  gazing  at  him,  stood  an  Indian,  in  a  blue 
shirt,  buckskin  leggins,  and  a  toga-like  blanket. 


THE    FOREST.  29 


CHAPTEK    II. 


Look,  underneath  yon  jutting  crag 
Are  hunters  and  a  slaughter' d  stag. 
"Who  may  they  be  ?    But  late  you  said 
No  steps  these  desert  regions  tread. 

Lord  of  the  Isles. 


A  GENIUS,  the  lover  of  tranquillity  —  playful  with  a 
mirth  which  shocked  the  solemn  hypocrisies  of  the 
world,  and  mingling  satire  with  sympathy  in  a  way 
that  was  little  understood  —  presided  over  the  earlier 
portion  of  this  tale.  "We  were  then  forced  —  it  was  no 
enchanter's  freak  —  to  reverse  our  wand,  and  call  up 
from  the  deep  a  demon  of  unrest,  with  bat-like  wings 
and  discordant  cry.  A  veil,  not  of  soft  rain-cloud,  nor 
of  sunshiny  mist,  but  of  lurid  and  sulphurous  fumes 
from  the  infernal  lake,  with  many  an  indistinct  and 
horrid  shape,  half-revealed  on  its  pitchy  volumes,  was 
drawn  over  our  life-landscape.  It  has  been  lifted  — 
those  who  knew  not  what  to  make  of  the  apparition 
should  rejoice  — and  we  find  ourselves  again,  after  a 


30  THE    FOREST. 

brief  space,  in  the  sensible  and  natural  world,  on  the 
wild  border  of  civilization. 

It  was  a  wilder  region  then  than  it  is  now,  not  only 
in  the  depth  of  its  nearly  unbroken  forests,  but  in  the 
character  of  its  inhabitants.  It  was  not  even  then 
absolutely  un visited  by  sportsmen,  but  they  were  few 
in  number ;  some  scattered  Indians  and  hardy  trappers 
chiefly  disputed  it  with  wolves  and  bears  and  crowds 
of  deer  and  moose.  The  most  advanced  post  of  any 
thing  like  civilization  was  a  sort  of  inn  upon  the 
neck  of  land  dividing  Pheasant  and  Big  Buck  Lakes, 
rendezvous  of  hunters,  trappers,  and  the  few  ad 
venturous  sportsmen  of  whom  we  have  spoken,  and 
the  proprietor  of  which  conducted  a  considerable 
commerce  in  game  and  peltry.  A  few  of  the  more 
trustworthy  and  intelligent  eof  the  trappers,  desig 
nated  by  him,  discharged,  when  occasion  required,  the 
office  of  guides  to  those  who  visited  the  region  in 
quest  of  sport,  and  such  were  our  friends  Morrell  and 
Courtney. 

"  How  did  you  find  us  out  ?  "  inquired  Atherton  of 
the  Indian. 

"  Me  saw  the  smoke  of  your  fire." 

"  Why  do  you  wish  me  to  accompany  you  to  your 
village  rather  than  one  of  my  companions  ?  " 

"  Exactly,"  said  St.  Clair.     "  That  is  what  I  should 


THE    FOREST.  31 

like  to  know;  for  Morrell  says  that  those  Indians 
beyond  Eacket  are  extremely  jealous  of  any  white 
man  visiting  their  villages,  or  intruding  on  their  hunt 
ing  grounds." 

The  Indian,  after  a  moment's  silence,  crossed  his 
arms  on  the  breast,  and  said  courteously,  regarding 
Alban  — "  The  young  chief  sleep  so,  and  when  he 
wake,  do  so,"  making  the  sign  of  the  cross. 

"  Your  people  are  Catholics,  then  ?  " 

"  Catholiques  —  yes." 

"  Is  the  white  man  who  is  sick  among  you  a  Cath 
olic  ?  "  inquired  Alban. 

" Non  pas,"  replied  the  Indian  with  quickness. 
"  The  sick  chief  is  a  long  time  friend  of  my  people, 
but  he  is  like  the  Indians  of  the  South  Eiver  before  the 
blackgowns  came.  He  offers  the  Great  Spirit  only  the 
pipe  of  peace,"  —  imitating  with  one  hand  the  upward 
wave  of  smoke  from  a  calumet.  "But  the  little  squaw- 
down  at  Saratoga  Oatholique  —he  say." 

The  Indian  alternated  between  the  dignified  and 
figurative  style  attributed  to  his  people  on  solemn  occa 
sions,  and  the  simplest  broken  English. 

"  Yes,  little  squaw  Catholique,"  he  added,  with 
emphasis 

Henry  Atherton  and  St.  Clair  laughed  with  one 
another,  and  the  Indian  gave  them  a  glance. 


82  THE    FOREST. 

"  And  lie  wants  some  white  man  to  come  on  with 
her." 

"  Yes,  he  pay  much  money." 

"  He  wants  a  servant,  then,"  said  Alban,  who  had 
seemed  to  hesitate.  "  I  am  not  a  person  of  that  kind. 
You  must  find  one  at  Saratoga,  unless  one  of  these 
guides  will  answer  better." 

"  Got  yery  good  guide  now,"  replied  the  Indian 
rather  coldly. 

"  Here  is  a  person,  Henry,  of  whom  I  know  nothing 
but  that  he  is  a  sportsman,  and  his  daughter  a  Cath 
olic,  has  fallen  sick  among  the  Indians,  and  sends  one 
of  them  to  Saratoga  to  hire  some  one  to  come  on 
with  the  young  lady;  and  the  messenger,  without 
even  a  letter  to  prove  his  character,  finding  me  by  the 
way,  protests  that  I  am  the  very  individual  required. 
Really,  although  my  sympathies  are  much  excited  by 
the  story,  supposing  it  to  be  true,  I  am  scarcely  war 
ranted  in  yielding  to  them  on  such  a  call." 

uOf  course  not,"  said  Henry  Atherton,  impa 
tiently  ramming  down  a  charge  of  buckshot;  —  "you 
do  n't  dream  of  it,  do  you  ?  " 

This  rather  settled  the  matter.  Breakfast  having 
been  despatched,  the  young  men  were  ready  for  a  fresh 
start.  Duncan  —  the  guide  whose  cabin  was  on  the 
shore  of  Louis  —  being  an  inferior  sort  of  fellow,  had 


THE    FOREST.  33 

been  sent  on  at  an  early  hour,  to  back  the  venison 
killed  the  day  before,  about  sixteen  miles  to  Hart's, 
then  a  mere  house  in  the  woods,  as  has  been  said, 
but  furnished  from  the  winter  lakes  with  an  abundant 
supply  of  ice  for  the  preservation  of  game.  One  man 
being  required  to  start  the  dogs,  the  absence  of 
Duncan  left  but  a  single  guide  for  the  boats  which 
were  to  watch  the  lake.  Each  of  the  young  men 
had  already  tried  a  day's  tramping  with  the  dogs,  and 
not  one  was  disposed  to  undergo  the  fatigue  again  with 
so  slender  a  chance  of  even  a  distant  shot.  But  Henry 
Atherton,  proud  t)f  his  skill  with  the  oar,  offered  to 
take  a  boat  alone.  A  son  of  Duncan's  —  a  white- 
locked  twelve-year-old  —  undertook  to  row  for  St. 
Clair,  and  Courtney  was  assigned  to  Alban.  The 
Indian  maintained  the  taciturnity  of  his  race  while 
these  arrangements  were  being  made,  but  when  he 
came  to  draw  his  birch  canoe  out  of  a  sheltered  nook, 
it  was  discovered  that  he  had  a  white  companion  and 
a  dog. 

"  Me  hunt,  too,  at  Louis  to-day,"  said  he. 

This  disturbed  the  arrangements,  but  at  last  it  was 
amicably  settled  that  the  Indian's  dog  should  be  put 
out  by  Morrell  with  the  others,  and  that  the  new 
comers  should  join  in  watching  the  lake.  The  white 
stranger  was  a  man  of  ordinary  appearance,  attired  in 

2* 


34  THE    FOEEST. 

an  oil-skin  cap  and  box  coat,  and  armed  with  a  heavy 
rifle. 

They  dropped  down  the  lake.  Henry  Atherton 
took  Pine  Point  —  the  same  station  which  he  had  occu 
pied  the  day  before ;  and  it  was  about  opposite  this  that 
Morrell  got  out  with  the  dogs.  The  Indian,  gliding 
a  good  deal  faster  than  Courtney,  went  straight  to  the 
point  where  Morrell  and  Alban  had  watched  the  day 
previous. 

"  Cunning  them  rascals  are!  "  said  Courtney.  "He 
knows  the  best  place  as  well  as  any  of  us,  I  guess. 
But  that  fellow  with  him  don't  look -like  a  real  sports 
man.  He  has  done  many  a  day's  work  in  his  life,  I 
reckon,  by  his  hands,  but  it  wasn't  in  the  woods. 
Well,  since  that  plaguey  Indian  has  gone  to  the  outlet, 
the  best  we  can  do  is  to  take  the  island ;  and  perhaps," 
added  he,  philosophically,  "  that  is  as  good  as  the 
other." 

An  islet  of  rock,  partly  covered  with  bushes,  rose 
in  the  middle  of  the  lake,  about  half  way  between 
the  outlet  and  Pine  Point.  St.  Clair  also  moored  at 
this  station,  whence,  indeed,  the  whole  of  that  end 
of  the  lake  could  be  most  conveniently  watched. 

"I  hope  you  will  get  a  shot  to-day,  St.  Clair," 
said  Alban. 

"I'd  like  to  shoot  that  fellow  in  the  box-coat  for 


THE    FOREST.  35 

coming  in  to  spoil  our  sport.  Your  Indian  friend, 
Alb,  said  nothing  about  him  when  he  was  trying  to 
persuade  you  to  accompany  him  on  a  fool's  errand  to 
Backet." 

"  It  was  irrelevant  matter,"  said  Alban.  "  Indians 
do  not  deal  in  the  superfluous." 

They  were  scarcely  settled  at  their  posts  before  the 
cry  of  the  dogs  was  heard,  followed  by  a  shot  —  the 
sharp,  though  distant,  crack  of  a  rifle  echoing  among 
the  hills. 

"Morrell  has  killed  a  deer  on  the  jump!"  cried 
Courtney,  starting  to  his  feet. 

The  dogs  now  continued  to  be  heard  for  hours, 
one  while  approaching,  then  retiring.  It  was  very 
exciting,  as  the  appearance  of  the  deer,  and  probably 
of  more  than  one,  was  momently  expected.  Courtney 
distinguished  the  voices  of  three  separate  dogs.  Fi 
nally,  one  of  them,  the  Indian's,  appeared  among  the 
willows  that  edged  the  lake  above  the  outlet.  The 
Indian  crossed  over  with  his  boat,  took  the  hound  in, 
and  paddling  back  through  the  lily-pads,  put  him 
ashore  again  at  the  runway.  The  creature  instantly 
sprang  away  into  the  forest,  which,  a  little  to  the  rear 
of  this  point,  was  low  and  chiefly  of  frowning  hemlock. 

A  half-hour  more  passed.  The  sound  of  the  dogs 
was  become  more  faint,  yet  Courtney  restlessly  sur- 


36  THE    FOREST. 

veyed  the  surface  and  borders  of  the  lake.  He  made 
St.  Glair  and  Alban  get  into  the  boats,  in  order  to  be 
ready  at  a  moment's  warning,  and  allotted  them  each 
a  portion  of  the  shore  to  observe. 

Alban  did  not  in  his  heart  believe  that  they  would 
see  any  thing  that  day ;  he  felt  rather  disposed  to  go 
and  enter  into  conversation  with  the  box-coated  stran 
ger,  to  ascertain  if  the  latter  knew  any  thing  about  the 
man  alleged  to  be  sick  among  the  Indians ;  with  this 
thought  he  left  off  watching,  and  looked  up  at  Court 
ney,  who  stood  on  a  flat  ledge  of  rock  projecting  over 
the  water.  Suddenly  the  latter's  countenance  changed. 
He  made  a  slight  exclamation,  and  sprang  down  the 
rocks  to  the  boat. 

"  The  deer  is  in  the  lake." 

In  fact  the  Indian's  canoe  was  already  gliding 
stealthily  out  among  the  lily-pads.  The  deer  had 
entered  on  the  same  side  of  the  lake  where  the  buck 
had  come  in  the  day  before  —  the  opposite  side  to  that 
on  which  Morrell  had  started  the  dogs.  It  was  a  buck, 
with  huge,  spreading  antlers  that  bore  up  nobly  over 
the  water  as  he  advanced  into  the  circle  of  his  enemies. 
He  was  swimming  straight  across,  which  of  itself  showed, 
that  he  was  a  powerful  animal,  and  yet  unwearied.  He 
had  come  in  quietly  and  silently,  and  was  so  nearly 
half  way  over  before  any  body  perceived  him,  that  the 


THE    FOKEST.  37 

Indian  was  not  in  a  condition  to  cut  him  off;  but 
Courtney  and  Alban,  being  in  the  middle  of  the  lake 
already  by  the  position  of  the  islet,  had  a  better  chance 
of  success. 

As  on  the  previous  day,  the  two  boats  soon  got  into 
a  line  with  each  other  and  the  strongly  swimming 
game.  Courtney  rowed  furiously,  but  the  man  in  the 
box-coat  played  in  a  frightful  manner  with  his  heavy 
rifle,  pointing  it  directly  at  Alban,  who  called  out  re 
peatedly  —  "  Don't  shoot  me,  stranger !  Mind  what  you 
are  about!"  And  the  box-coated  stranger,  being  at 
the  most  beautiful  rifle  distance,  dropped  the  point  of 
his  barrel  and  looked  confounded. 

They  headed  off  the  deer,  who  scarcely  turned. 
"  He 's  bound  to  go  ashore  —  that  deer — ain't  he  ?  " 
cried  Courtney. 

"Shall  I  fire?"  said  Alban. 
"Let  drive!" 

The  report  rang.  The  buck  leaped  half  out  of  the 
water,  but  kept  on  his  way,  though  bleeding  profusely 
from  the  neck.  The  Indian  was  now  motioning  to  his 
white  companion  to  make  use  of  his  rifle ;  but  it  was 
with  some  difficulty  that  the  latter  could  be  persuaded, 
crying  out  that  he  was  not  near  enough ;  but  he  fired, 
however,  just  as  Courtney  got  his  boat  round  again, 
to  head  the  deer  a  second  time.  It  was  quite  in- 


THE    FOREST. 

effectual.  The  ball  went  dancing  over  the  water  for 
rods  beyond  the  buck's  branching  head.  Courtney 
rapidly  came  up  again. 

"  Give  him  the  other  barrel ! "  he  cried  to  Alban. 
Alban,  who  was  now  in  a  regular  paroxysm  of  the 
buck  ague,  fired  nervously,  and  almost  without  taking 
aim.  The  leaden  hail  rattled  among  the  great  tree 
like  horns,  and  cut  the  right  ear,  but  touched  no  vital 
part,  and  the  deer  swam  on.  Courtney,  maddened, 
rowed  up  and  closed  with  him,  for  the  game  was  now 
nearly  out  of  deep  water,  and  if  he  once  touched 
bottom,  was  lost,  for  the  guide  had  left  his  rifle  at 
the  shanty.  The  excited  backwoodsman  caught  one 
of  the  antlers  and  struck  the  deer's  head  with  an  oar. 
The  mighty  buck  fought  with  fury.  He  knocked  the 
side  of  the  fragile  boat  with  his  horns ;  he  got  under  it 
so  as  nearly  to  overset  it  twice,  till  Courtney,  fearing 
to  be  swamped,  quit  his  hold ;  but  the  deer  also,  taught 
by  this  short  but  severe  conflict,  abandoned  the  purpose 
of  going  ashore  in  spite  of  all  opposition,  and  struck 
out  to  run  up  the  lake. 

"  Now  we  are  sure  of  him,"  said  Courtney.  "  Load 
again,  Mr.  Atherton." 

"  I  have  no  more  buckshot,"  replied  Alban,  much 
agitated.  "I  never  counted  on  missing  a  shot,  even 
if  I  got  one." 


THE     FOREST.  39 


"Load  with  fine  shot,"  said  Courtney,  wildly. 
Alban  did  so,  but  came  near  putting  two  charges 
of  powder  in  one  barrel,  and  two  of  shot  into  the  other. 
All  this  had  passed  in  almost  the  same  time  that  it 
takes  in  relating.      And   now  St.  Glair   hove   within 
rifle  shot,  and  fired  beautifully.     The  ball  glanced  off 
one  of  the  horns,  and  flew  skipping  over  the  water, 
close  by  Alban's  boat.     All  three  boats  were  now  in 
pursuit,  and  the  box-coat,  having  had  time  to  reload, 
prepared  to  fire  again ;  but  just  then  Henry  Atherton, 
who   had  rowed   out  alone  from  Pine  Point,  was  di 
rectly  in  front  of  the  deer,  and  seeing  the  rifle  raised 
towards  him,  shouted,  — "Don't  shoot  me!  "--and  the 
stranger  lowered  his  rifle  again,  and  seemed  to  aban 
don  the  chase  in  despair. 

Henry  Atherton  now  passed  to  the  right  and  let 
the  deer  go  by  him,  then  throwing  down  the  oars, 
took  his  gun  and  fired  without  effect.  Although  a 
good  shot,  and  cool  in  most  circumstances,  he  could 
not  keep  sufficiently  so  in  this  exciting  moment,  be 
sides  which  his  arms  trembled  with  rowing.  St.  Glair 
fired  again,  the  ball  entering  the  fleshy  part  of  the 
neck,  drawing  blood  from  the  silent  and  resolute 
swimmer ;  and  Alban,  getting  another  side-shot,  gave 
his  fine  charge  with  a  steady  and  perfect  aim,  in 
hopes  to  finish  him.  But  this  deplorable  shot  only 


40  THE    FOEEST. 

cut  the  ear  almost  to  pieces,  and  closed  the  right 
eye. 

"  Misery ! "  cried  the  young  man,  shocked  at  the 
sight.  "  Get  out  of  this,  Courtney." 

But  now  the  Indian,  following  close,  closed  with 
the  deer,  and  catching  one  of  the  horns,  was  about 
to  cut  its  throat,  when  Henry  Atherton,  who,  having 
dropped  astern,  was  now  come  up  again,  called  out, 
dropping  the  oars  and  raising  his  gun,  — "  Halloa, 
there  !  no  butchery !  Drop  off,  while  I  fire  !  " 

The  Indian,  not  wishing  to  run  the  risk  of  a  scat 
tering  charge  of  buckshot,  let  go.  The  deer,  ex 
hausted  as  he  was  by  the  chase  and  loss  of  blood, 
following  still  that  deep  instinct  of  escape  which  no 
hopelessness  can  quell  in  a  race  that  God  has  made 
to  fly  from  its  enemies,  swam  on  with  renewed  cour 
age.  Just  the  back  of  the  head,  with  the  wide- 
branching  horns,  could  be  seen  above  the  water. 

"  I  wish  he  could  get  off, "  said  Alban,  watching 
his  cousin.  "It.  is  too  bad  to  kill  him  after  such  a 
chase.  He  deserves  to  escape." 

Henry's  second  barrel  spoke  quick  and  sharp.  The 
whole  charge  entered  the  fatal  spot  just  behind  the 
horns.  The  head  and  branching  horns  sank  like  lead. 
The  Indian  closed  in  again,  seized  the  tail,  and  brought 
the  antlers  to  the  surface. 


THE    FOKEST.  41 

"  Now  who  does  this  deer  belong  to  ?  "  asked  the 
ingenuous  Courtney,  as  his  boat  came  gliding  along 
side. 

"  To  us,  of  course,"  said  the  impudent  box-coat. 
"'Our  dog  brought  him  in.  See,  there  he  is  whining 
on  the  shore." 

Such  was  the  case.  The  Indian's  black  hound 
whimpered  on  the  shore  of  the  lake,  at  the  point 
where  this  noble  buck  had  entered.  The  latter  ap 
peared  a  gigantic  fellow,  with  a  fine  gray  coat  turned 
up  with  white,  and  the  antlers,  now  you  could  look 
at  them  coolly,  seemed  as  large  as  moose-horns. 
There  were  no  fewer  than  fifteen  prongs,  or  tines, 
some  of  them  very  singular.  The  Indian  and  his 
white  companion  towed  the  body  ashore  to  dress  it  at 
once,  as  well  as  to  make  good  their  claim. 

"They've  got  the  deer,  but  you  killed  it  any 
how,"  said  Courtney,  looking  at  them  rather  blank. 
"I'm  blamed  if  I  believe  that  black  dog  brought 
the  deer  in.  Why,  he  was  n't  out  more  than  half  an 
hour,  and  it  isn't  certain  that  he  was  after  a  deer  at 
all.  We  shall  know  when  Morrell  comes." 

"Henry  killed  him,"  said  Alban.  "They  never 
would  have  got  him  if  it  hadn't  been  for  us,  that's 
certain." 

"Certain,"    said    Courtney.      "But    ho!  — there's 


42  THE    FOREST. 

another  deer !  and  coming  in  at  the  same  place ! 
Now  I  am  sure  that  big  buck  is  ours." 

There  was  no  time  to  be  lost  in  conversation. 
Courtney's  boat  took  the  lead.  The  point  was  to 
head  off  the  deer  (at  the  distance  it  seemed  like  •  a 
doe  or  yearling)  without  frightening  him  too  soon. 
But  in  this,  notwithstanding  all  exertions,  they  were 
not  successful.  The  animal  saw  the  boats,  and  turned 
back.  Alban,  who  had  loaded  again  with  buckshot 
obtained  from  Henry,  fired  ineffectually  just  as  the 
game  touched  bottom  among  the  lily-pads.  The 
yearling  went  frisking,  and  kicking  up  its  light  heels, 
up  the  wood-lined  shore,  and  disappeared.  A  dog 
opened  almost  immediately  among  the  hemlocks. 

"There!  Morrell's  dog!  I  knew  it,"  said  Courtney. 

Extremely  puzzled,  the  hunter  rowed  quite  into 
the  outlet.  In  a  few  minutes  he  came  upon  his 
own  dog  among  the  willows  on  the  opposite  side, 
and  took  him  in.  This  confirmed  his  previous 
opinion.  The  two  dogs  had  each  brought  down  a 
deer  —  the  fine  old  buck  and  the  yearling,  and  his 
dog  had  lost  the  scent  in  the  outlet.  Nothing  could 
be  plainer.  Discussing  this  matter,  they  rowed  back 
into  the  lake.  Courtney  stood  up  in  the  boat  to 
survey  the  surface.  "  I  vow,  there 's  another  deer  in 
the  lake !  "  he  exclaimed. 


THE    FOREST.  43 

Sure  enough,  the  little  head,  with  two  straight 
horns  like  ears,  was  seen  at  a  great  distance  bobbing 
on  the  water.  It  was  going  up  the  lake.  There 
was  another  chase,  almost  as  exciting  as  the  former. 
For  St.  Clair  and  Henry,  moored  at  the  island, 
having  relaxed  their  watch,  did  not  see  the  deer, 
which  passed  them  unmolested.  Then  Courtney 
came  up,  pulling  like  a  man  insane,  and  they  also 
started  in  pursuit.  Courtney's  dog  beginning  to 
speak,  he  threw  him  overboard.  Then  the  Indian 
and  the  box-coat  left  their  booty  to  join  the  chase. 
It  was  distressing  to  see  the  poor  animal  distracted 
amid  so  many  pursuers,  first  taking  one  course  and 
then  another,  when,  had  it  kept  straight  on  from  the 
first,  it  might  easily  have  evaded  all.  The  exertions 
of  Courtney,  and  the  fact  that  no  one  else  for  a  long 
time  saw  the  game,  brought  Alban  first  within  gun 
shot,  and  taught,  as  well  as  calmed,  by  experience,  he 
was  deliberate.  It  was  only  a  side  shot,  for  the 
Indian's  boat  had  just  turned  the  deer,  but  it  was 
effectual.  It  was  the  same  yearling  which  had  come 
in  before  on  the  other  side  of  the  lake;  a  fact  that 
Alban  at  first  could  not  credit,  until  he  saw  Morrell's 
dog  following  in  the  water;  both  animals  having  in 
that  short  interval  swum  the  outlet  and  made  a 
detour  through  the  woods  of  nearly  two '  miles.  In 


44  THE    FOREST. 

about  twenty  minutes  more,  Morrell  appeared  on  the 
shore  with  the  saddle  of  a  doe  that  he  had  shot  in 
the  hills;  and  then  it  was  ascertained  that  the  big 
buck  really  belonged  to  the  other  party,  for  Morrell 
could  give  an  account  of  all  the  dogs.  In  all  this 
excitement  Alban  entirely  forgot  to  make  the  in 
quiries  that  he  intended,  of  the  Indian's  companion. 

"  Well,"  said  Henry  Atherton,  as  they  discussed 
their  supper  by  the  red  fire  .  and  torch-light,  "we 
have  had  a  successful  day  at  all  events.  Our  party 
has  killed  three  deer,  and  one  of  them  the  biggest 
ever  seen  in  these  parts,  you  say,  Courtney?  It 
happens  to  have  been  brought  in  by  the  dog  of 
another  party;  true,  it  is  their  deer;  but  we  killed 
it  for  them,  eh?" 

"  They  never  would  have  got  it,"  said  Courtney, 
"  if  you  had  n't  wounded  it  by  that  first  shot ;  for  if 
ever  a  deer  was  bound  to  go  ashore,  it  was  that 
buck." 

"  How  he  fought  you,  Courtney ! "  Alban  said. 
"  I  declare  I  thought  he  would  have  stove  in  the 
boat." 

"Aye,  that  buck  was  bound  to  go  ashore,"  said 
Courtney. 

"  It  was  a  beautiful  shot  of  yours,  Henry,  that 
finished  him,"  said  St.  Clair. 


THE    FOREST.  45 

"  First-rate  !  "  said  Courtney. 

uThe  beauty  of  it  was,"  said  Alban,  "that  Hal 
had  first  to  row,  and  then  to  fire." 

"  They  are  welcome  to  the  deer,  since  their  dog 
brought  it  in,"  said  Henry  Atherton,  complacently. 
"  We  have  got  venison  enough ;  but  I  wonder  if 
that  chap  in  the  box-coat  would  sell  the  horns.  I'd 
give  him  ten  dollars  for  them,  Morrell." 

"  I  guess  you  can  have  them  for  that,"  said  Mor 
rell,  with  a  shrewd  look. 

In  pursuance  of  this  idea,  Henry  Atherton  crossed 
the  lake  with  Morrell  to  Duncan's  shanty,  where  it  was 
understood  the  box-coated  sportsman  was  going  to 
spend  the  night.  St.  Clair  took  it  into  his  head  that 
he  would  have  a  night  row  on  the  lake.  Alban  sat 
•under  the  shanty,  and  stirred  up  Courtney  to  tell  sto 
ries  of  hunting  and  trapping.  There  was  the  exciting 
narrative  of  the  first  deer  he  ever  killed,  when  a  mere 
boy,  all  alone,  with  nothing  but  an  axe,  on  Lake  Piseco. 
How  he  got  a  rope  noosed  round  the  horns,  (for  it  was 
a  mighty  buck !)  and  how  the  deer  got  into  the  long 
.shallows  of  Piseco,  and  began  to  jump  with  the  boat 
after  him,  and  so  on,  quite  thrilling  to  hear.  Then  the 
way  they  hunted  moose  in  the  winter,  and  how  they 
slept  in  the  snow  ;  the  number  of  deer  and  moose  they 
killed  merely  for  the  pelts,  leaving  all  the  meat  in  the 


46  THE    FOREST. 

woods,  which  Courtney  agreed  was  a  shame ;  and  the 
horrible,  but  regular  method  of  hunting  the  deer  in 
packs,  practised  by  the  wolves.  Alban  could  not  but 
reflect  on  the  singularity  of  hearing  these  wild  stories, 
on  so  wild  a  spot,  so  little  known,  yet  within  three 
days'  journey  of  New  York. 

"  I  have  heard,"  said  Courtney,  "  that  in  the  old 
countries  a  man  can't  go  into  the  woods  and  kill  a 
deer,  without  having  permission  from  somebody." 

"  Certainly,"  said  Alban.  "  You  have  heard  what 
is  true." 

"  That  seems  mighty  queer,"  said  Courtney. 

Now  was  heard  some  loud  shouting ;  the  dogs 
started  and  dashed  into  the  forest ;  after  a  while  voices 
were  heard  from  the  landing.  St.  Clair  had  not  been 
able  to  find  it,  but  had  happily  encountered  Morrell 
coming  back  with  Henry  Atherton.  They  had  not 
effected  the  negotiation  for  the  big  horns,  for  the  box- 
coated  sportsman  was  gone ;  but  Duncan  had  returned 
from  Hart's,  bringing  notes  from  the  ladies.  There 
was  one  for  Henry  Atherton  from  his  wife  ;  and 
another  for  Alban  from  Jane,  to  whom  he  had  gal 
lantly  sent  the  venison  he  had  killed.  The  last  read 
as  follows : 


THE    FOREST.  47 

"  Lake  Pheasant,  Oct.  8,  1835. 

"  DEAR  COUSIN  ALBAN,— 

"  I  arn  delighted  to  hear  of  your  success  at  Louis. 
The  compliment  you  have  paid  your  cousin  Jane  in 
sending  her  'that  beau-tchi-ful  saddle,'  as  Mr.  Hart  calls 
it,  is  highly  appreciated,  I  assure  you.  Mr.  Hart  has 
put  it  in  ice.  He  says  it  is  the  finest  and  fattest  venison 
he  ever  saw  in  his  life.  I  shall  be  proud  enough  to 
send  it  in  portions  to  my  friends,  who  are  all  yours. 
We  ladies  mope  sadly  here  without  you  and  my  cou 
sins,  particularly  Mrs.  Henry,  which  is  natural.  There 
are  many  vows  for  your  safety,  and  speedy  return. 

"  Your  affectionate  Cousin  JANE." 

"You  and  Hal  are  in  luck,"  cried  St.  Clair  with 
some  humour.  "You  have  each  killed  a  buck,  and 
each  has  got  a  letter  from  a  lady." 

"It's  a  shame  that  Mary  Atherton  did  not  write 
you  a  note,"  said  Henry. 

"  I  think  she  might." 

"  And  so  my  Indian  friend  was  not  at  the  shanty  ?  " 
observed  Alban  to  Henry  Atherton,  restoring  Jane's 
note  to  the  envelope,  and  placing  it  carefully  in  his 
pocket-book,  the  pocket-book  itself  in  his  bosom. 

"No;  he  went  on  to  Saratoga  immediately  after 
our  last  race." 


48  THE    FOKEST. 

"  That  was  very  'cute  in  him,"  said  Courtney.  "  He 
slept  all  them  three  hours  we  was  watching  the  lake 
before  the  big  buck  came  in,  as  them  Ingins  do,  with 
one  ear  and  one  eye  open ;  and  now,  you  see,  he  will 
get  through  the  woods  by  daylight,  and  foot  it  all 
night  on  a  first-rate  road,  with  a  moon  till  four  o'clock. 
Won't  he  be  walking  into  Saratoga  by  daybreak?  I 
guess  likely  he  will ;  and  all  the  same  for  him  as  if  he 
had  started  from  Louis  this  morning  at  six  o'clock." 

"Well,  to-morrow  is  Saturday,"  said  Henry 
Atherton;  "I  suppose  we  shall  return  to  Hart's  in 
the  afternoon,  of  course." 

"  I  think  so  upon  the  whole,"  said  Alban,  invol 
untarily  putting  his  hand  to  his  breast-pocket. 

"  We  can  get  up  early,  and  have  one  race  before 
we  start,"  said  St.  Glair. 

They  had  their  race,  on  a  cold,  showery  day, — • 
truly  a  race,  for  Range  ran  a  deer  from  one  ex 
tremity  of  the  lake  to  the  other,  —  Courtney  and 
Alban  following  in  their  boat,  hearing  the  incessant 
cry  of  the  hound,  now  loud  and  near,  as  the  deer 
ran  close  to  the  shore,  now  faint  and  remote,  as 
it  took  the  back  of  a  well-wooded  hill,  till  finally 
the  sound  was  lost  among  the  loftier  eminences  that 
lay  beyond  the  inlet.  The  other  dogs  were  equally  un 
successful.  Their  voices  were  heard  among  the  hills, 


THEFOEEST.  49 

but  the  deer  were  not  seen.  They  either  would  not 
take  the  water  at  all,  or  they  sought  refuge  in  some 
other  lake.  At  noon,  then,  our  party  cooked  and  ate 
their  last  hurried  meal  at  the  shanty ;  they  concealed 
the  various  utensils  against  the  next  time ;  the  guides 
shouldered  the  saddles,  the  luggage,  and  their  own 
rifles.  They  recrossed  the  lake,  hauled  up  and  secured 
the  boats,  and  away  all  together  through  the  forest, 
a  tough,  rough  tramp,  of  some  seven  miles.  At 
length  they  struck  what  by  Courtney  was  called  a 
road,  where  a  lumber  wagon  received  them  and  their 
heavy  load.  It  rained  torrents  all  the  way.  Their 
driver  was  an  old,  white-whiskered  Canadian,  with  a 
cap  of  bearskin  and  a  face  like  a  fox.  The  seats  of 
the  wagon  were  the  chip-bottomed  chairs  of  the 
country,  lashed  two  and  two.  They  drove  furiously. 
At  one  moment  the  wagon  inclined  about  forty-five 
degrees  to  the  right ;  the  next  to  the  left ;  now  they 
thundered  down  a  hill  washed  bare  by  floods ;  then 
dashed  through  a  miry  valley  up  to  the  wheel-hobs. 
They  were  drenched  outwardly  by  the  rain,  inwardly 
by  perspiration,  which  the  labour  of  keeping  their 
places  caused  to  stream  forth  in  abundance.  Alban 
and  Henry  managed  to  protect  themselves  partially 
by  gathering  round  them  the  comforter  under  which 
they  had  slept  at  Louis.  Finally  it  grew  dark,  and 

3 


50  THE    FOEEST. 

still  on  they  dashed,  neck  or  nothing,  over  the  broken 
and  miserable  road,  flying  with  one  wheel  in  the  air 
over  the  rock,  and  half-capsized  the  next  moment  in 
a  gully,  but  nothing  it  seemed  could  overset  the 
lumber-wagon.  Drenched  and  soiled,  with  slouching 
hats  crushed  over  their  eyes,  and  dark,  untrimmed 
beards,  they  sprang  out  at  the  long,  low,  piazzaed 
stoop  of  the  forest  inn.  But  three  lovely  women  were 
on  the  steps,  to  give  .them,  in  spite  of  all,  the  warmest 
welcome  that  affection  and  consanguinity  warranted. 

"I  declare,"  said  Mary  Atherton,  but  offering 
Alban  in  turn  her  cousinly  lips,  "you  are  positively 
not  kissable." 

"Do  you  think  so,  Jane?" 

Jane  laughed. 

"You  are  a  perfect  fright." 

"Well,  then,  I  will  postpone  my  kiss  till  I  am 
shaved  and  dressed." 

"Oh,  no,  take  it  now,"  she  answered,  in  a  low 
voice  of  suppressed  pleasure.  "You  have  got  back 
safe.  I  am  so  glad." 


THE    FOREST.  51 


CHAPTEK    III. 


True  to  his  church  he  comes  ;  no  Sunday  shower 
Keeps  him  at  home  in  that  important  hour. 

CRABBE. 

Quince.    Is  all  our  company  here  ? 

Bottom.    You  were  best  to  call  them  generally,  man  by  man, 
according  to  the  scrip. 

Midsummer-Nigh? s  Dream. 

I  return  to  the  loves  of  Leonard  and  Margaret. 

The  Doctor. 


SUNDAY  is  a  day  which  ought  to  unite  all  hearts, 
and  bring  together  those  whom  variety  of  occupa 
tion  and  difference  of  circle  and  station  separate  on 
the  secular  days  of  the  week.  It  is,  indeed,  a  beauti 
ful  idea,  as  even  the  mere  philosopher  must  acknowl 
edge,  that  men  should  believe  one  day  in  seven  to 
have  been  divinely  set  apart  for  a  common  rest  from 
labours  and  the  pursuit  of  gain,  with  an  obligation 
upon  all  of  uniting  in  a  common  act  of  worship, 
and  meeting,  for  that  end,  as  equals  before  their 
Maker,  under  a  common  roof.  Sabbaths,  and  temples, 


52  THE    FOREST. 

and  the  solemn  public  rites  of  religion !  "What  would 
civilization  —  what  would  humanity  be  —  without 
them  ?  Divided  by  the  pursuits,  and  alienated  by  the 
strifes,  of  the  market  and  the  forum,  where  shall  we 
learn  the  unity  of  our  nature,  our  destiny,  and  our 
duties  —  where  re-enter  into  the  vast  and  simple  fellow 
ship  of  our  kind — if  not  before  the  altars  of  our  God? 

Sunday,  unfortunately,  was  not  a  day  that  united 
our  friends,  the  Athertons,  but  rather  on  which  some 
of  the  deep  incompatibilities  between  them,  latent  on 
other  days,  became  apparent.  At  Babylon,  at  the 
very  start  of  this  tour  of  pleasure,  Jane,  we  may 
remember,  had  been  saddened  "to  sit  by  herself  in 
the  old  square  pew,  where  she  and  Alban,  in  the  old 
times,  occupied  opposite  corners ; "  and  on  all  their 
Sunday  stations  in  civilized  districts,  at  least  three, 
and  sometimes  four,  hostile  and  unsympathizing  rites 
had  divided  the  attendance  of  this  party  of  six  near 
relatives.  At  Lake  Pheasant,  indeed,  there  was  no 
opportunity  for  such  a  separation. 

They  were  situated  here  somewhat  like  Lady  Alice 
and  her  friends  at  Chamouni,  except  that  they  had  no 
Mr.  Courtney  to  intone  the  Church  of  England  service 
for  them  in  the  apartment,  suppose,  of  Mrs.  Henry 
Atherton;  (!)  nor  was  there  a  rural  church  where  a 
Puseyite  damsel  could  join  a  Catholic  peasantry  in 


THE    FOREST.  53 

singing  the  Rosary  and  hearing  a  sunrise  mass;  but 
to  make  amends,  there  was  a  little  parlour  at  Hart's, 
(as  there  was,  our  fair  readers  remember,  in  the 
Alpine  inn,)  where  Mr.  Henry  Atherton  proposed  to 
read  the  morning  service  of  the  Episcopal  Church  at 
half-past  ten ;  and  there  was  also,  at  no  great  distance, 
a  small,  clap-boarded  country  school-house,  where,  in 
the  winter  months,  the  law  of  the  State  of  New 
York,  and  the  genius  of  the  people,  maintained  a 
nursery  of  rudimentary  education  for  the  young  in 
habitants  of  the  district;  and  which  at  all  seasons 
served  for  such  religious  offices  as  might  be  per 
formed  at  long  intervals  by  a  Methodist  itinerant  for 
the  benefit  of  a  scattered  population.  It  is  the  zeal 
and  rude  enthusiasm  of  these  travelling  preachers, 
which  have  alone  kept  up  the  very  name  of  Chris 
tianity  in  many  a  lonely  region  of  our  half-settled 
country.  If  any  of  our  friends  had  been  disposed  to 
profit  by  Wesleyan  ministrations,  they  had  the  op 
portunity,  for  this  very  Sunday  was  that  of  the 
itinerant's  visit. 

The  rain  of  tHe  preceding  evening  had  changed  to 
snow.  The  roads,  never  more  than  tolerable,  were  in 
an  awful  state.  On  a  fair  Sunday,  previously  appointed, 
the  sparse  congregation  would  gather  in  from  many  an 
unsuspected  nook  in  the  heart  of  the  forest,  from  many 


54  THE    FOREST. 

a  log-hut  beside  the  wild  southern  road ;  but  so  few 
persons  collected  on  this  day,  that  the  preacher  con 
tented  himself  with  a  hymn  and  prayer,  and  postponed 
the  sermon  to  another  occasion.  But  Henry  Atherton, 
having  informed  Mr.  Hart  of  his  intention  to  hold  an 
Episcopal  service,  had  quite  a  congregation  of  guides, 
hangers-on,  domestic  help,  and  so  on,  including  the 
itinerant  himself. 

The  latter  was  a  sandy-haired,  smooth-shaven  indi 
vidual,  meek  in  expression  as  a  ewe.  In  him  seemed 
no  clerical  aifectation.  A  narrow  white  neckcloth  was 
the  only  mark  of  his  order,  to  which  he  added  yellow 
trowsers,  a  plain  blue  coat,  and  a  large  old  straw  hat, 
lined  with  faded  silk.  He  seemed  good  and  simple- 
minded  ;  he  had  "  never  seen  this  order  of  worship 
before,"  he  remarked,  although  he  had  often  heard  tell 
of  it.  Henry  read  one  of  Mr.  Soapstone's  discourses, 
which  had  been  copied  by  Mary  Ellsworth  in  the  days 
of  that  young  clergyman's  popularity,  and  having  ex 
changed  his  sportsman's  gear  for  a  suit  of  black,  passed 
universally  for  a  minister  of  "  the  Episcopal  order." 

We  regret  to  say  that  most  of  the  audience  showed 
a  strong  disposition  to  sleep,  and  of  this  number  were 
our  friends  Morrell  and  Courtney.  The  sermon,  indeed, 
made  them  prick  up  their  ears  at  first,  particularly  as 
Henry  read  it  with  great  animation,  but  as  it  was  rather 


THE    FOEEST.  55 

over  their  heads  in  point  both  of  thought  and  style,  the 
attention  soon  fell  off  again.  Those,  on  the  other  ^and, 
who  could  appreciate  both  the  beautiful  service  and 
clever  sermon,  were  fidgetty  from  observing  how  little 
either  was  suited  to  the  capacity  of  the  majority  present. 

"If  the  whole  had  been  in  Latin,"  observed  St. 
Clair,  "it  would  not  have  been  much  more  unintelli 
gible." 

"  And  if  it  had  been  in  Latin  it  would  have  been 
vastly  more  imposing,"  remarked  Alban. 

"  Mummery,  I  know,  is  more  imposing  to  a  certain 
class  of  minds  than  a  reasonable  service,"  retorted 
Henry. 

"Which  is  the  more  reasonable  service  for  an  un 
educated  people  —  one  that  they  can  understand  and 
enjoy,  or  one  that  they  cannot?"  answered  Alban. 

"  I  wonder  what  the  Methodist  parson  would  have 
said  to  a  mass  —  holy  water,  candles,  Latin  and  all!" 
cried  Henry,  waxing  warm. 

"  Come,  Hal,"  said  his  sister,  "  don't  quarrel  with 
Alban  because  your  service  has  been  a  failure." 

"  What  do  you  mean  by  calling  it  a  failure  ?  "  cried 
Mrs.  Henry,  reddening.  "  If  people  have  not  cultiva 
tion  enough  to  appreciate  it,  the  fault  is  in  them,  not  in 
the  service." 

"The  mistake,  cousin  Mary,"   observed  St.  Clair, 


56  THE    FOKEST. 

courteously,  "  was  in  offering  so  fine  a  service  to  people 
destitute  of  the  cultivation  which  is  so  necessary." 

"  Precisely,"  cried  Jane,  with  a  malicious  smile  to 
George.  "  Now,  for  my  part,  I  like  the  Episcopal  form 
very  much,  but  I  should  not  like  being  tied  to  it,  year 
in  and  year  out ;  and  I  am  sure  cousin  Mary  Ellsworth 
herself  will  allow  that  to  such  a  congregation  as  her 
husband  had  to-day,  a  warm  extempore  prayer,  and  a 
jingling  hymn  or  two,  would  have  been  far  more 
acceptable." 

"  That  is  just  the  drift  of  what  I  observed  a  moment 
ago,"  said  Alban,  smiling — "that  there  is  no  rite  of 
worship  capable  of  interesting  and  edifying  all  classes 
alike,  except  the  mass." 

This  remark  drew  on  a  warm  discussion,  which  be 
came  so  unpleasant  at  last,  that  the  ladies,  agreeably  to 
their  instinct  for  the  preservation  of  peace  in  such  cases, 
deemed  it  best  to  separate  the  combatants.  St.  Glair 
was  bitter;  Hal  lost  his  temper  and  was  downright 
insulting  to  Alban,  who  certainly  said  some  very  pro 
voking  things,  with  more  provoking  coolness.  Jane 
quoted  Scripture,  with  amusing  simplicity  and  appro 
priateness ;  Mrs.  Henry  appealed  to  the  Fathers  (not 
that  she  quoted  them)  but  was  positive  that  the  Primi 
tive  Church  was  patterned  exactly  after  the  Anglican  ; 
and  Mary  Atherton  rather  scoffed  at  the  whole  thing, 


THE    FOREST.  57 

and  particularly  laughed  at  Alban  for  trying  to  con 
vince  her  sister-in-law. 

Alban  perceived  the  ridicule,  and  was  the  first  to 
retire  from  the  field.  Soon  he  was  walking  up  and 
down  the  piazza,  in  front  of  the  windows.  Henry  won 
dered  at  his  infatuation  ;  St.  Glair  protested  that  he  had 
no  patience  with  him ;  Mrs.  Henry  thought  he  was  a 
great  deal  too  positive ;  Jane  believed  that  Alban  was 
perfectly  sincere,  and  was  sure  he  would  one  day  find 
it  out,  if  he  was  really  in  the  wrong ;  Mary  Atherton 
affirmed  that  he  only  talked  in  that  way  to  be  singular, 
and  she  wondered  that  they  encouraged  him  in  it. 

Just  then  the  subject  of  their  conversation  tapped 
on  the  window-pane,  and  invited  them  all  to  come  out 
and  take  the  air  before  dinner. 

It  was  snowing  fast,  and  blowing  in  gusts.  The 
ladies  shuddered,  and  shrugged  their  shoulders;  but 
the  young  men  thirsted  for  the  open  air,  (though  St. 
Clair  had  already  a  rheumatism,  caught  in  the  soaking 
drive  from  Louis,)  and  their  fair  companions  naturally 
would  bear  a  good  deal  for  the  sake  of  their  society. 
So,  presently,  they  we're  all  pacing  up  and  down  the 
verandah,  rapidly,  arm  in  arm,  in  pairs,  regardless  of 
wind  and  sleet. 

"  This  is  glorious  !  " 

"  Perfectly  splendid  I  "   said  the  lady,  with  a  laugh. 
3* 


58  THE    FOREST. 

"  You  feel  the  cold,  perhaps  ?  " 

"I  will  tie  this  handkerchief  over  my  head— just 
to  keep  my  hair  from  blowing." 

"  How  people  can  bear  to  live  in-doors  I  can't  un 
derstand." 

"What  will  you  do  when  you  are  immured  in  a 
lawyer's  office  in  New  York  ?  " 

"Well,  what  I  can  to  keep  up  the  out-door  spirit; 
—  ride  every  day,  (my  father  has  bought  a  horse,)  boat 
in  summer,  and  get  every  year  some  weeks  for  the 
woods," 

"  I  am  glad  you  feel  the  importance  of  taking  care 
of  your  health,"  said  the  lady.  "  I  should  not  like  to 
see  you  become  one  of  those  pale  scholars  that  we  read 
of  in  novels,  and  who,  I  notice,  always  end  by  dying 
of  consumption.  I  want  you  to  be  distinguished,"  she 
continued  with  a  sweet  emphasis  and  slight  laugh, 
"  but  I  want  you  to  live  !  " 

"  You  are  very  kind,  my  sister." 

4 '  Is  it  so  very  kind  to  wish  my  brother  not  to  die  ?  " 

He  looked  down  upon  her  from  his  fair  manly 
height. 

"  To  tell  you  the  truth,  it  is  not  certain  that  I  shall 
begin  the  study  of  law  quite  yet." 

"What  then?" 

"  My  education  is  hardly  finished  enough  to  attack 


THE    FOREST.  59 

a  profession.  I  have  a  notion  of  spending  at  least  a 
couple  of  years  at  some  foreign  university,  to  mellow 
my  scholarship.  After  that,  if  my  funds  hold  out,  I 
should  like  to  make  a  little  tour  of  the  principal  coun 
tries.  The  noblest  fruit  takes  the  longest  to  ripen :  (I 
have  already  confessed  to  you  that  I  am  very  vain  :)  — 
let  me,  if  I  am  worth  any  thing,  hang  yet  awhile  and 
mature  on  the  boughs  of  studious  leisure." 

These  illustrations  did  not  please  the  girl  of  nine 
teen  so  much  as  her  "  brother's"  generally  did.  Truly 
he  was  very  patient !  A  couple  of  years  at  a  foreign 
university !  then  a  little  tour !  then  three  years  in  the 
study  of  law  —  six  or  seven  in  all,  before  he  could  pos 
sibly  be  settled !  Her  heart  beat  proudly,  as  it  had 
done  once  or  twice,  or  more  times,  before,  on  this  jour 
ney,  at  things  which  Alban  had  said.  She  was  almost 
tempted  to  drop  his  arm.  But  that  would  never  do. 
There  was  nothing  for  her  but  concealment  of  such 
feelings.  Had  Jane  inferred  that  her  cousin  was  indif 
ferent  to  her,  or  cared  for  her  as  a  sister  only,  (as  he 
pretended,  and  she  herself  pretended  to  think,)  the 
pang  would  have  been  sharp  but  short.  Resentment 
for  her  slighted  affection  would  have  extinguished  the 
faint,  chill  flame  of  a  maiden's  unsolicited  love. 

But  was  it  faint  and  chill  ? 

We  must  remember  that  Alban  did  not  appear 


60  THE    FOREST. 

to  Jane  as  he  does  to  us  —  if  we  have  read  his  earlier 
history.  She  deemed  him  an  ingenuous  and  inexpe 
rienced  youth;  tender,  indeed,  in  his  feelings,  but 
shy  to  all  ladies,  even  to  his  cousins ;  and  yet,  withal, 
one  in  whom  broke  out,  now  and  then,  a  strange 
knowledge  —  a  penetration  —  and  a  calmness  of  manly 
resolve  —  that  puzzled  her,  and  made  him  a  mystery. 
To  her  was  he  kind,  nay,  devotedly  attentive,  yet 
never  breathed  a  word,  or  directed  a  glance  that  con 
veyed  more  than  brother's  love.  And  Jane  had 
well  concealed,  or  thought  she  had,  whatever  feeling 
she  might  admit  for  him  beyond  a  sister's  affection. 
ISTor  was  this  precisely  because  she  feared  that  so 
he  loved  her  not.  She  attributed  his  coldness  to  his 
high  religious  principles,  and  perhaps  excessive  virtue. 
To  her,  indeed,  he  stood  upon  a  lofty  pedestal,  quite 
above  human  infirmity.  She  was  a  weak,  fond  girl; 
he  a  scholar,  a  genius,  and  a  hero.  And  yet  with 
so  much  in  him  that  was  homely,  too,  and  gently 
familiar;  and  now  and  then  a  glimpse  of  ardour  that 
surprised!  He  occupied  her  thoughts,  in  brief;  and 
a  female  nature,  pure  and  susceptible  of  attachment, 
did  the  rest. 

Yet  we  should  do  wrong  to  omit  among  the 
causes  which  had  fanned  Jane's  innocent  preference 
into  a  passion,  her  knowledge  of  her  cousin's  early, 


THE    FOREST.  61 

and,  as  she  had  been  led  to  suppose,  unchanged  fancy 
for  her  girlish  self,  the  wishes  of  their  friends,  their 
railleries,  and  the  notion,  which  was  rife  among  them 
all,  that  her  gentle  influence  was  the  destined  instru 
ment  of  Providence  to  reclaim  him  from  his  perver 
sity  in  matters  of  religious  belief.  So  she  loved  him 
—  do  maidens  need  a  cause  for  that? 

And  Jane  had  found  it  out.  The  blameless  secret 
was  known  unto  herself.  So  she  reflected  on  her 
cousin's  speech  about  his  future  career. 

"He  certainly  loves  me  better  than  he  does  any 
one  else,"  thought  she.  "If  he  cared  for  any  body 
too  much,  he  would  not  feel  this  insulting  content 
ment.  I  have  let  him  be  too  sure  of  me.  And  yet 
I  am  as  willing  as  he  to  wait  seven  years.  Haven't 
I  loved  him  as  many  as  seven  already  ?  I  am  not  in 
a  hurry  to  be  married.  I  wonder  if  he  thinks  I  am." 

At  this  thought  the  maiden's  cheek  began  to 
burn.  It  was  not  the  first  time,  of  late,  it  had  told 
tales.  The  youth  marked  the  changes  on  that  en 
gaging  face,  and,  certes,  he  must  have  been  both  dull 
and  void  of  feeling  to  notice  them  not;  though  in 
the  cold  air  he  might  account  for  the  reddened 
cheek  by  another  cause.  But  the  half-averted  eye 
and  tremulous  lips  were  expressive  interpreters  of 
the  dubious  glow  that  spread  between  them,  and, 


62  THE    FOREST. 

truth  to  say,  our  friend  had  learned  to  read  in  a 
woman's  face  as  in  a  book  —  to  do  which  truly 
and  well  requires  the  calmness  which  is  taught  by 
experience,  joined  to  the  sympathy  that  cannot  be 
taught  at  all.  Alban  marked  the  changes,  we  say; 
but  just  then  the  dinner-bell  rang.  Jane,  who  had 
caught  his  glance,  and  instinctively  withdrawn  her 
hand  from  within  his  arm,  hastily  joined  the  other 
ladies,  as  they  retreated  to  their  rooms,  with  a  con 
fused  feeling  of  fear  and  a  strangely  beating  heart. 

At  dinner,  both  Alban  and  Jane  partook  spa 
ringly  of  Mr.  Hart's  delicious  venison,  although 
cooked  and  served  that  day  in  the  most  approved 
style.  And  they  avoided  each  other's  eyes. 

The  party  sat  longer  than  usual,  and  the  day  was 
so  dark  and  stormy  that  candles  —  long,  running 
tallow  candles  —  were  brought  on  before  they  left 
the  table.  And  the  gentlemen  staid  after  the  ladies 
to  smoke;  —  an  innovation  in  those  parts,  and  one 
which  would  have  proved  highly  inconvenient  to 
Mr.  Hart's  family  —  indeed,  would  not  have  been 
allowed  for  any  body  by  its  female  regents  —  unless 
the  house  dinner  had  -been  despatched  at  an  earlier 
hour. 

The  gentlemen  were  scarcely  alone  before  Mr. 
Hart,  who  was  postmaster  as  well  as  innkeeper, 


THE    FOREST.  63 

brought  in  a  letter  for  Mr.  Alban  Atherton —  a 
letter  of  many  post-marks,  just  arrived  from  Sara 
toga:  for  the  weekly  mail  had  got  in.  The  letter 
was  addressed  in  a  large,  tremulous,  old  hand,  but 
very  legible,  and  the  seal  bore  a  shield  charged  with 
a  mitre  and  pastoral  staff. 

The  young  man  broke  it  open  quickly,  and  read 
it  with  eagerness.  Before  he  could  quite  have  glanced 
at  the  concluding  words  and  signature,  he  rose  im 
petuously,  and  exclaimed  that  he  must  start  for  New 
York  on  the  morrow. 

"  Well,  you  can't  set  off  this  minute,  Alb,"  said 
St.  Glair.  "  What  is  in  the  wind,  man?  " 

"You  know  that  this  is  the  letter  I  have  been 
expecting  all  the  journey.  I  declare  I  feel  compunc 
tion  to  have  been  spending  my  time  in  hunting  and 
fishing  and  summer  idleness,  while  such  a  question 
hung  undecided." 

"What  question,  Alb?  "  asked  Henry. 

"  'T  is  no  matter :  —  you  would  not  understand 
my  feeling  about  it,  Hal." 

Alban  paced  the  floor  rapidly. 

"It  is  true,"  said  he,  as* if  to  himself,  "that  I 
have  been  trying  by  this  means  to  allay  my  impa 
tience  and  distract  my  thoughts ;  but  now  I  return 
to  New  York  forthwith." 


64:  THE    FOKEST 


CHAPTEE    IY. 


He  was  proceeding  in  this  wild  manner,  when  his  invective  was  inter 
rupted  by  the  man  in  black,  who  entered  the  apartment,  introducing  his 
niece,  a  young  lady  of  exquisite  beauty. 

Citizen  of  the  World. 

"She  is  my  rival  in  the  affections  of  Antonio." 

Lover's  Surprise. 


As  the  ladies  proceeded  along  the  open,  windy 
hall  to  the  sitting-room,  they  perceived  that  there 
had  been  an  arrival.  The  great  covered  wagon  in 
which  they  themselves  had  come  to  Lake  Pheasant, 
stood  before  the  door.  A  boy  was  bringing  in  a 
leathern  travelling-bag.  When  they  reached  the 
parlour,  they  found  two  females  in  possession  of  it, 
and  sitting  by  the  fire.  As  it  was  the  common 
sitting-room  of  the  inn,  which  hitherto  they  had 
exclusively  enjoyed,  solely  because  there  were  no 
other  lady  boarders,  they  had  no  right  to  object. 
But  Mrs.  Henry  Atherton  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

"  Let    us    go    up    to   my  room,"    she    whispered. 
"There  is  a  fire  there." 


THE    FOEEST.  65 

Mary  Atherton  assented,  and  both  ran  up  stairs. 
Jane,  after  a  moment's  irresolution,  thinking  that 
Alban  would  probably  soon  leave  St.  Glair  and 
Henry  to  their  cigars,  waved  her  hand  to  her  com 
panions,  and  sauntered  into  the  parlour. 

One  of  its  female   occupants  rose  to  make  room 
for  her.     Both  were   shawled   and  hooded,   but  their 
cloaks  had  been  thrown   aside.     Jane   acknowledged 
the   civility   of  the   stranger  with   a   slight  bow,  and 
turned  to    the  window.      The    covered  wagon,    after 
being  unloaded,  was  soon  driven  into  the  stable-yard 
adjacent,  and  the  horses  having  been  taken   off,  was 
run  under    the   wagon-shed.      The    new-comers  were 
going    to     stay     all    night    then;     but     what    busi 
ness    could    females    have     in    this    purely    sporting 
region,   unless   they   belonged  there,   or  (a  very   rare 
case)  accompanied  their  husbands,   brothers,    or  other 
male  relatives?     Yet  now  Mr.   Hart  came  in,    in  his 
good-humoured   bustling   way,   and   took   such   orders 
about  their   supper,    that  Jane   understood   that  they 
were    both    strangers    and    alone.     They  had    asked 
for  a  room  with  a  fire.     Mr.  Hart  was  sorry  that  the 
only    bedroom    with    such    an     accommodation    was 
already   occupied,   but  the  parlour  where  they  were 
was  the  common  sitting-roorn  of  all  his  boarders,  and 
he    hoped    they    would    make    themselves    quite    at 


66  THE    FOKEST. 

home  in  it  while  they  staid.  Mr.  Hart  treated 
them  with  great  respect,  but  that  signified  nothing,  — 
females,  however  unprotected,  would  be  so  treated 
in  all  the  American  back  settlements.  They  were 
both  young,  and  the  one  who  acted  as  spokeswoman 
had  a  sweet,  firm  voice  —  a  pure,  thorough-bred  New 
York  accent.  As  soon  as  Mr.  Hart  disappeared, 
this  young  lady  took  off  her  hood,  and  let  her 
shawl  fall  over  the  back  of  her  chair.  Jane,  still 
standing  by  the  window,  and  looking  at  her  unob 
served,  saw  that  she  was  not  only  young  but 
beautiful — a  faultless  native  profile,  but  the  extreme 
regularity  of  which  was  relieved  by  the  softness  of 
seventeen,  a  fine  dark  eye,  shyly  glancing,  and  the 
whole  crowned  by  a  profusion  of  very  dark  hair, 
gloriously  disordered  by  travel.  A  hand  of  snow  was 
quickly  raised  to  the  last,  when  the  stranger  rose 
hastily  and  came  to  the  glass ;  her  comb  fell  out,  and 
dropped  to  the  floor.  Her  companion  picked  it  up. 

"  Give  me  the  other  comb,  Margaret,"  she  said. 

Margaret  produced  a  comb  such  as  was  required, 
from  a  travelling-bag  that  lay  on  one  of  the  chairs,  and 
the  young  lady  drew  it  through  her  long  raven  tresses 
till  they  became  glossy  as  silk,  when  twisting  them 
together  with  a  dexterity  that  girlhood  can  alone  com 
mand,  she  skilfully  fastened  them,  with  the  aid  of  fillet 


THE    FOREST.  67 

and  comb,  in  a  graceful  classic  coil.     The  stranger  was 
elegantly,  but  very  simply,  dressed  in  a  habit  of  fine 
gray  cloth,  and  all  this  action  betrayed  to  Jane's  obser 
vant  eye  the  beauty  of  her  shape.     During  the  process 
she  regarded  Jane  occasionally,  and  bore  the  latter's 
frank  observation  with  perfect  composure. 
"  Are  you  staying  here  ?  "  she  asked. 
Jane  assented. 
"  And  other  ladies  ?  " 
"  Two  besides  myself.  " 
11  And  your  husbands,  I  suppose." 
Jane  blushed :  —  "  One  of  the  other  ladies  is  mar 
ried —  a  bride.     We  are  a  wedding-party." 

"  Are  there  young  gentlemen  ?  "  said  the  stranger, 
with  a  faint  expression  of  annoyance. 
"  Two  in  our  party." 

"  My  father  left  us  at  Saratoga  about  three  weeks 
ago,  while  he  went  to  the  Adirondack  lakes,  to  fish 
and  shoot,"  said  the  young  lady,  appearing  to  think 
that  some  account  of  herself  was  necessary.  "  He  was 
then  convalescent  from  a  severe  illness,  and  yesterday 
morning  a  messenger  reached  us,  with  the  servant  who 
was  with  him,  with  the  intelligence  that  he  has  been 
taken  very  sick  again  among  the  Indians,  away  beyond 
Kacket  Lake.  I  am  going  back  with  the  Indian  mes 
senger.  We  have  come  thus  far  without  much  difn- 


68  THE    FOREST. 

culty,  although  the  road  is  shocking,  but  how  we  are 
to  get  on  beyond  this  I  do  not  know." 

"  I  don't  believe  that  you  can  get  on  at  all ! " 
exclaimed  Jane.  "  The  gentlemen  say  (for  we  talked 
of  going  with  them  to  a  lake  only  seventeen  miles 
distant)  that  it  is  quite  impossible  for  ladies." 

"  The  Indian  messenger  says  that  it  is  very  easy  for 
a  squaw,"  returned  the  young  lady.  "  We  can  proceed 
a  part  of  the  way  on  horseback :  after  that  we  go  in 
canoes.  The  only  difficulty,  I  understand,  is  at  the 
places  where  they  are  obliged  to  take  the  boats  out  of 
the  water  and  transport  them  round  falls  —  but  I  am  a 
very  good  walker." 

"  But  are  you  aware,"  asked  Jane,  "  that  it  will 
take  you  two  or  three  days  to  reach  Racket  ?  You 
must  sleep  in  an  open  shanty — if  you  can  find  one  — 
at  least  two  nights ! " 

"  Oh  !  I  have  thought  of  all  that !  "  said  the  young 
lady.  "  Margaret  here  will  be  with  me.  If  I  can  find 
some  respectable  guide  —  an  elderly,  married  man  is 
what  I  should  prefer  —  in  addition  to  our  good  Indian, 
I  sha'n't  mind  those  things." 

"You  have  a  great  deal  of  courage  —  more  than  I 
should  have.  Have  you  no  mother  or  sister  ?  " 

"  No  sister.  My  stepmother  is  at  Saratoga.  Her 
health  is  too  delicate  for  such  a  journey.  My  father, 


THE    FOKEST.  69 

you  know,  is  not  aware  that  I  have  been  sent  for." 
And  here  the  young  lady  covered  her  face. 

"Do  you  expect  to  find  your  father  very  ill?" 
asked  Jane  with  sympathy. 

"  If  I  find  him  living,"  she  answered. 

"  You  have  indeed  a  great  deal  of  courage.  Why, 
if  your  father  should  unhappily  not  be  living,  —  how 
will  you  ever  get  back  ?  What  will  you  do  among  the 
Indians  —  strangers  and  savages !  "  exclaimed  Jane. 

"They  are  not  savages,"  said  the  young  lady. 
"  Nor  shall  I  seem  a  stranger  to  them." 

It  immediately  occurred  to  Jane  that  the  gentlemen 
would  be  proud  to  form  a  guard  of  honour  to  escort 
this  brave  daughter  on  her  adventurous  journey.  It 
would  take  but  a  week  to  go  and  return.  But  Alban 
—  what  would  he  think  of  her  ?  A  romantic  adven 
ture  of  that  sort  was  dangerous !  Jane  glanced  at  the 
beauty  of  this  young  creature,  whose  courage  and  filial 
love  made  her  already  too  interesting.  She  was  strong 
ly  tempted  to  say  nothing  further.  For  a  moment  she 
wished  that  the  stranger's  room  could  be  got  ready 
before  the  gentleman  came  in,  and  that  her  story  might 
not  transpire.  Jane  wrestled  in  vain  with  these  un 
generous  impulses.  She  scanned  her  new  acquaintance 
from  head  to  foot  with  the  inexorable  criticism,  coun 
terpoised  by  the  truth-telling  fears,  of  a  rival.  It  was 


70  THE    FOREST. 

a  young  lady  all  over  —  simple,  gracious,  spirited,  and 
fascinating. 

The  unexpected,  familiar  recognition  by  our  own, 
friends,  of  those  who  are  strangers  to  us,  produces  a 
singular  impression.  While  Jane  was  yet  revolving 
these  thoughts,  and  settling  in  her  own  mind  how  she 
should  manage  to  hold  her  own  against  this  dangerous 
intruder,  the  gentlemen  came  out  of  the  dining-room  of 
the  inn  into  the  hall,  and  at  the  same  time  the  ladies 
came  forth  from  their  room  at  the  top  of  the  stairs  to 
speak  to  them.  Then  the  ladies  descended  half-way, 
and  they  chatted  in  whispers.  The  ladies  affected  un 
willingness  to  come  into  the  parlour.  The  gentlemen 
declared  that  this  was  absurd.  Jane  went  out  to  them, 
shutting  the  door  after  her. 

"  Halloa !  "  said  St.  Clair,  who  had  looked  into  the 
bar-room  just  opposite.  —  "Here  is  that  Indian  fellow 
who  got  the  big  deer  from  us  at  Louis." — And  ap 
proaching  the  rest,  and  lowering  his  voice,  —  "I 
should  n't  wonder,  Alb,  if  the  ladies  in  the  parlour 
were  the  very  party  that  you  were  to  escort  to  Eacket, 
or  somewhere." 

"  Let  us  go  in  and  see." 

"Bemember  your  letter,  Alb,"  said  St.  Clair. 
"  What  will  you  bet,  Hal,  that  he  does  n't  go  to  Kacket 
with  these  people  instead  of  to  New  York." 


THE    FOREST.  71 

"  To  New  York  ?  "  said  Jane. 
"I  have  received  a  letter  since  dinner,"  said  Alban. 
"Let  us  go  up  stairs  and  talk  that  matter  over," 
said  Henry  Atherton. 

"  Yes,  do !  "  cried  Mrs.  Henry  and  Mary  Atherton. 
"You  had  better  come  in  and  see  the  young  lady 
in  the  parlour  first,  and  hear  her  story,"  said  Jane. 

"  What,  she  has  been  telling  it  to  you !  the  forward 
thing !  "  said  Mary  Atherton. 

"Let  us  make  up  our  minds  what  to  do  in  the  first 
place,  and  hear  her  story  afterwards,"  said  St.  Clair. 
"No  good  will  come  of  that  plaguey  Indian,  I  am 
certain,  since  he  got  away  our  deer." 

There  seemed  a  general  disposition  to  adjourn  up 
stairs,  and  hear  the  stranger's  story  from  Jane,  but 
Alban  demurred. 

"It  is  not  courteous.  Let  us  go  in  and  see  her 
first." 

"What,  all  of  us!     That  would  be  rather  cruel." 

"She  is  pretty  self-possessed,"  Jane  said,  "and 
really  beautiful." 

"That  alters  the  case,"  said  St.  Clair. 

So  the  gentlemen  decided  to  go  in,  and  the  ladies 
perforce  assented,  Mrs.  Henry  with  matron  dignity 
leading  the  way. 

Rapid  exclamations  followed. 


72  THE    FOREST. 

"  Mary  Ellsworth  !     Is  it  possible  ?  " 

"  Why,  Mary  De  Groot  1 " 

They  embraced,  Miss  De  Groot  kissing  Mrs.  Ather- 
ton  on  both  cheeks. 

"  Mary !     Miss  De  Groot  1 " 

"Alban!"  — She  gave  him  both  her  hands. 

St.  Glair  and  Henry  also  claimed  her  acquaintance. 
She  shook  hands  with  them  both,  and  then  sat  down, 
hid  her  face  in  her  handkerchief,  and  cried.  Mary 
Ellsworth  poured  forth  a  million  of  questions.  The 
gentlemen  understood  the  matter  better,  and  Henry 
Atherton  answered  for  Miss  De  Groot.  Alban  turned 
to  Margaret,  with  ill-concealed  agitation. 

"  How  do  you  do,  Margaret  ?  Are  you  alone  ? 
You  and  your  young  lady?  No  one  but  the  Indian 
so  far.  Ah,  very  well !  we  will  take  care  of  you.  Of 
course  I  shall  go  to  Kacket  with  you,  or  wherever  it  is 
you  are  bound.  We  will  take  a  couple  of  trusty  guides 
from  this  place.  Eeally,  you  had  no  idea  of  our  being 
here  I  Why,  you  must  have  been  at  Saratoga  when  we 
were.  —  Exactly ;  you  were  in  a  cottage  at  the  United 
States,  and  we  were  at  the  Pavilion." 

"  My  young  lady  will  be  so  glad  to  see  you,  sir," 
replied  Margaret.  "  Many  is  the  cryin'  fit  she 's  had 
last  night  and  to-day,  thinkin'  of  the  journey  she  was 
takin1  all  alone  by  herself.  But  she  kept  sayin'  that 


THE    FOREST.  73 

Almighty  God  would  send  somebody  to  protect  her, 
and  sure  enough  He  has  sent  you,  sir,  and  I  'm  think 
ing  He  knows  who  is  best." 

When  Miss  De  Groot  had  recovered  from  the  first 
effect  of  this  unexpected  meeting,  she  gave  a  more  full 
account  of  her  journey  and  its  motives,  and  told  how- 
she  had  been  unable  to  procure  a  suitable  person  at 
Saratoga  to  accompany  her,  all  which  appeared  very 
rational.  She  addressed  none  of  her  observations  to 
Alban,  nor  did  he  say  any  thing  directly  to  her.  But 
he  looked  at  her  almost  all  the  time,  and  sometimes 
their  eyes  met,  when  Miss  De  Groot's  were  instantly 
withdrawn.  Jane  saw  and  heard  all. 

4 


74  THE    FOREST. 


CHAPTER   Y. 


Eos.  Why,  whither  shall  we  go  ? 

Gel.  To  seek  my  uncle  in  the  forest  of  Arden. 

Eos.  Alas,  what  danger  will  it  bo  to  us, 

Maids  as  we  are,  to  travel  forth  so  far  ? 

As  You  Like  It. 


WHEN  the  bell  rang  for  tea,  Henry  Atherton  offered 
his  arm  to  Miss  De  Groot.  Tea  at  Lake  Pheasant  was 
what  breakfast  and  dinner  were  —  an  affair  of  trout 
and  venison,  and  served  in  the  dining-room.  Though  a 
superfluous  meal  in  general,  it  was  not  so  to  the  newly- 
arrived  traveller.  She  was  too  much  accustomed  to 
inn  usages  in  the  country  parts  to  give  more  than  a 
glance  at  the  abundance  with  which  the  table  was 
covered,  but  being  hungry,  she  blessed  herself,  and 
accepted  some  venison.  That  rapid  motion  did  not 
escape  the  watchful  Jane,  and  if  confirmation  had  been 
needed  of  a  suspicion  already  too  strong,  when  Mary 
De  Groot's  hand  crossed  from  her  left  to  her  right 
breast,  —  like  a  white  dove  softly  alighting  — •  as 


THE    FOREST.  75 

sharp  a  pang  shot  through  the  bosom  of  the  jealous 
girl,  as  if  a  poniard  had  been  plunged  into  it.  As  for 
Alban,  she  fairly  hated  him. 

The  ladies,  with  the  exception  of  Miss  De  Groot, 
declined  both  fish  and  game,  however  tempting,  with 
sarcastic  emphasis.  St.  'Glair  pressed  the  offer  of  sev 
eral  kinds  of  tart,  (in  the  vernacular,  pie,)  with  cakes, 
sweetmeats,  maple  syrup,  hot  rolls,  rice-cakes,  and  so 
on,  but  in  vain. 

"  Cousin  Jane,  let  me  prevail  on  you  to  try  this 
pumpkin  pie." 

11  No,  I  thank  you,  George." 

"Cousin  Mary?" 

"JSTo,  I  thank  you,  cousin  George." 

"Cousin  Mary  Atherton?"  —  with  increasing  ani 
mation. 

"No,  I  thank  you,  George. " 

"  Miss  De  Groot,  you  surely  will  not  refuse." 

"  Eeally,  Mr.  St.  Clair,  I  fear  that  I  must.  But  I 
mean  to  eat  some  rice-cakes  presently,  with  maple- 
syrup." 

St.  Clair  turned  to  the  smart  American  girl  who 
waited,  but  who  of  course  (and  very  properly)  con 
sidered  herself  the  equal  of  any  body  present. 

"  Pray,  Miss  Jemima,  are  we  obliged  to  eat  all  that 
is  on  the  table?" 


76  THE    FOREST. 

"  Not  if  you  ain't  a  mind  to,  I  guess." 

"  I  only  asked,"  replied  George,  "  because,  if  we 
were,  I  was  going  to  beg  you  to  call  in  Mr.  Hart,  to 
make  these  ladies  eat  their  share." 

This,  as  Miss  Jemima  afterwards  remarked,  "  made 
her  snort  right  out,"  and  also  spill  the  tea  she  was 
handing  Miss  Atherton.  St.  Glair  kept  up  a  pretty 
steady  fire  of  similar  jokes,  perhaps  not  very  brilliant, 
but  which  made  every  body  laugh  all  the  same ;  the 
principal  point  of  every  jest  being  the  effect  of  such 
mere  absurdity  upon  Miss  Jemima,  and  another  "young 
lady  "  who  presided  at  the  teapot  which  stood  upon  a 
side-table.  Yet  an  occasional  flash  of  deeper  and 
brighter  humour  —  a  mirth  of  the  heart  —  betrayed 
itself  in  St.  Glair's  jests,  like  a  sparkling  trout  rising 
among  a  shoal  of  frothy  minnows,  and  giving  its  golden 
speckles  to  the  sun.  Nor  was  he  ever  so  happy  within, 
as  those  jests  betokened. 

"  Come,  Atherton,"  he  continued,  "  we  must  both 
stuff  as  much  as  we  can.  I  think  that  you  and  Alb 
and  I  can  easily  get  down  a  pie  apiece." 

But  when  he  proceeded,  accordingly,  with  a  mani 
acal  stare,  which  nobody  else  could  assume,  to  take  a 
whole  one  upon  his  plate,  Jemima  ran  out  of  the  room 
in  a  convulsion,  whereupon  St.  Glair  gave  a  frank  little 
laugh,  so  delightfully  unaffected  and  friendly,  that  all 


THE    FOREST.  77 

laughed  with  him,  and  tears  came  to  the  eyes  of  Mary 
De  Groot,  for  whose  benefit  this  flare-up  was  princi 
pally  intended. 

"  You  are  charming  to-night,  George,"  said  Jane, 
leaning  forward  with  both  elbows  on  the  table,  in  a 
genial,  Bacchante  way  which  she  had  at  times,  and 
throwing  back  her  soft  ringlets. 

"  It  is  you  who  inspire  me,  cousin  Jane,"  he  replied. 
"  Ever  since  I  saw  your  eyes  so  bright  on  the  stairs, 
that  I  could  not  tell  whether  they  were  blue  or  green, 
I  have  felt  like  another  person." 

St.  Clair  stopped,  as  they  were  going  out  of  the 
dining-room,  to  ask  Jemima,  with  great  seriousness,  if 
any  body  else  was  to  "  eat "  after  them  ;  and  receiving 
a  giggling  affirmative,  rejoined, 

"Oh!  are  they  to  come  yet?  How  you  relieve 
my  mind !  Well,  Jemima,  do  impress  upon  them  the 
necessity  of  making  a  clean  sweep  of  what 's  left." 

Mary  De  Groot  laughed  merrily  when  she  caught 
Al ban's  eye  in  the  hall.  St.  Clair  offered  his  arm 
pompously  to  Jane,  and  they  went  in  together  to  the 
parlour,  with  a  thousand  ridiculous  airs.  Here  Alban 
neglected  a  good  opportunity  to  place  himself  by  Miss 
De  Groot,  but,  taking  a  seat  at  some  distance  from 
her,  opened  the  subject  of  her  journey.  He  took  for 
granted  that  he  was  to  accompany  her,  and  Mary,  by 


78  THE    FOREST. 

silence  at  least,  acquiesced.  Mrs.  Henrys  new-mar 
ried  propriety  took  the  alarm,  of  course.  She  com 
municated  her  doubts,  in  whispers,  to  Mary  Atherton 
and  Jane,  and  then  to  Mary  De  Groot  herself. 

"  Mr.  Alban,"  said  the  latter,  immediately,  "  the 
ladies  think  it  will  not  be  quite  proper  for  you  to  be 
my  escort  to  Eacket  Lake,  and  perhaps  they  are  right." 

"We  will  all  three  accompany  Miss  De  Groot," 
said  Henry  Atherton. 

"I  protest  against  that/'  cried  his  wife,  crimsoning. 
"  What  are  we  to  do  —  left  here  alone  ?  " 

"  Miss  De  Groot  cannot  be  suffered  to  proceed 
alone  on  such  a  difficult  expedition ;  that  is  clear," 
answered  Henry. 

"I  thank  you  all  for  your  kindness,"  said  Mary, 
"  but  I  beg  that  I  may  be  permitted  to  go  on  with 
my  Indian  guide  and  Margaret." 

"  As  far  as  I  am  concerned,"  observed  Alban, 
springing  up  at  the  same  time,  and  beginning  to  pace 
the  room,  "it  is  of  no  use  for  any  body  to  talk.  I 
shall  accompany  you,  Miss  Mary,  to  join  your  father, 
if  you  go,  whether  you  desire  my  company  or  not. 
If  you  conclude  to  give  up  the  enterprise,  I  shall  pro 
ceed  without  you.  Your  father  is  my  friend ;  he  is 
sick  among  strangers ;  it  is  sufficient.  So  no  more 
need  be  said." 


THE    FOREST.  79 

"  I  shall  be  away  by  daybreak  to-morrow,"  said 
Mary.  "  You  may  be  assured  of  that.  The  very  first 
question  I  asked  Mr.  Hart  on  our  arriving  here,  was 
how  far  he  could  send  us  with  horses." 

"  A  pretty  story  to  tell  your  father,"  pursued 
Alban,  "  that  I  let  you  come  through  that  wilderness, 
as  one  may  say,  alone,  for  fear  of  some  imaginary 
impropriety.  If  one  of  my  cousins,"  added  he,  sink 
ing  his  voice,  "will  join  us,  so  much  the  better;  but  I 
go  at  any  rate." 

"  I  shall  be  delighted  to  be  of  the  party,"  said  St. 
Clair.  "  I  want,  of  all  things,  to  see  Eacket.  I  am 
pretty  well  racketed  already,"  added  he  aside,  with  a 
kind  of  sweet  contortion. 

"  I  referred  to  our  lady  cousins,"  replied  Alban. 
"If  one  of  them  would  venture  to  accompany  Miss 
De  Groot  on  this  journey  of  filial  piety,  it  would  be  a 
true  woman's  kindness  in  my  opinion." 

"  Oh,  no,  that  would  be  the  most  unreasonable 
thing  to  expect,"  exclaimed  Mary.  "I  have  not  the 
shadow  of  a  claim  upon  your  cousins :  —  Mr.  Alban, 
you  forget." 

"That  you  are  a  young  lady  like  ourselves,  and 
in  such  a  trying  position,  is  claim  enough,"  said  Jane, 
who  had  been  listening  with  breathless  interest.  Jane 
was  much  flushed. 


80  THE    FOREST. 

"It  is  impossible  for  me  to  go,  Mary,  or  I  would 
with  pleasure,"  said  Mrs.  Henry,  in  a  low  voice. 

The  ladies  got  round  Miss  De  Groot,  and  con 
versed  in  whispers.  Henry  and  St.  Clair  consulted 
apart. 

"If  Mrs.  Henry  could  bear  such  a  journey,"  ob 
served  Mary  Atherton,  "  it  would  be  just  the  thing. 
Her  husband  would  be  with  her,  and  Jane  and  I  could 
remain  here  with  perfect  propriety  till  your  return, 
under  the  protection  of  Mrs.  Hart.  But,  really,  I  feel 
sensitive  about  joining  such  an  expedition  with  only 
George  and  Alban." 

"But  why?"  demanded  Jane.  "We  should  not 
scruple  travelling  under  their  protection  to  New 
York." 

"It  is  very  different." 

"What  is  the  difference?  I  don't  see  any,"  said 
Jane. 

"  Will  you  then  accompany  Miss  De  Groot  ?  You 
and  Alban  ?  "  said  Mary  Atherton. 

"  George  is  to  be  of  the  party,"  said  Jane. 

"  Oh,  yes,  George  is  to  be  of  the  party." 

"You  would  be  a  more  suitable  person  than  I,  I 
allow,"  said  Jane  with  spirit,  "but  I  thought  you 
objected." 

"It  is  true  that  I  am  older  than  Alban,  and  it  is 


THE    FOREST.  81 

well  known  that  George  and  I  have  no  fancy  for  each 
other,"  remarked  Miss  Atherton. 

"  Will  you  go  then,  Mary  ?  "  said  Mrs.  Henry. 

"  Will  you  go  then,  Mary  ?  "  said  Jane. 

"If  you  and  Jane  think  that  I  had  better: — but 
Jane  wants  to  go  herself." 

"  No  I  ".  cried  Jane. 

"Perhaps,"  resumed  Mary  Atherton,  with  an  air 
of  generosity,  "  Miss  De  Groot  may  have  a  preference. 
If  so,  I  beg  that  she  will  express  it.  In  my  heart, 
Miss  De  Groot,  I  am  dying  to  be  of  the  party,  and 
so,  for  a  different  reason,  is  Jane.  Choose  between  us." 

"Oh!  no!  I  could  n't  do  that.  You  are  both  too 
kind,  and  I  could  never  so  far  offend  one  as  to  prefer 
the  other,"  replied  Mary  De  Groot. 

"  You  have  reasons  for  preferring  me,  with  which 
Jane  cannot  be  offended,"  answered  Miss  Atherton. 
"  She  is  too  nearly  of  your  own  age,  (seventeen  or 
eighteen,  I  guess,)  and  too  pretty,  to  matronize  you 
well.  I  am  older  and  plainer,  and  I  am  not  in  love 
with  Alban,  which  Jane  is." 

"Believe  as  much  of  that  as  you  like,  Miss  De 
Groot ! "  said  Jane,  with  a  pretty  toss  of  the  head, 
but  growing  pale. 

Miss  De  Groot  turned  her  dark  gray  eyes  full 
upon  Jane,  with  a  piercing  scrutiny.  The  latter 

4* 


82  THE    FOREST, 

played  nervously  with  her  ringlets,  looking  down. 
Miss  De  Groot  withdrew  her  inscrutable  glance. 

"I  choose  Jane,"  she  said.  "She  will  excuse  my 
calling  her  so,  since  I  am  not  acquainted  with  her 
other  name." 

"  Always  call  me  Jane !  " 

"  You  are  not  offended.  Miss  Atherton  ?  "  pursued 
Mary. 

"Not  in  the  least,"  replied  Mary  Atherton, 
regarding  her  with  a  mixture  of  curiosity  and 
disappointment. 

The  gentlemen  came  forward;  Henry  Atherton 
was  delighted  with  the  conclusion  arrived  at,  and 
St.  Clair,  who  was  to  be  of  the  party,  was  evidently 
not  displeased  at  it. 

Mr.  Hart  was  called  in,  and  his  co-operation 
secured.  Morrell  and  Courtney  were  to  be  the 
guides,  in  addition  to  the  Indian.  As  soon  as  all 
was  settled,  Miss  De  Groot  consulted  her  watch,  and 
pleading  her  two  days'  travel,  and  the  early  hour  at 
which  they  must  rise  on  the  morrow,  bade  them  all 
good-night. 


1>HE    FOKEST.  83 


CHAPTER    VI. 


Ros.  O  Jupiter !  how  weary  are  my  spirits  I 

Touch.  I  care  not  for  my  spirits,  if  my  legs  were  not  weary. 

Ros.  Courage,  good  Aliena. 

Gel.  I  pray  you  bear  with  me ;  I  cannot  go  no  further. 

As  Yon  Like  It. 


BY  the  earliest  light,  old  Durand,  the  Canadian, 
might  be  seen  upon  the  piazza  of  Mr.  Hart's  inn 
pacing  to  fro  in  his  long,  trailing  overcoat,  and  whip 
in  hand.  His  white- whiskered,  fox-like  face,  and 
furry  cap,  gave  him  the  appearance  of  a  wild  animal 
prowling  about  the  door.  At  the  stoop  was  drawn 
up  the  lumber  wagon,  with  six  wicker  chairs  for 
seats,  and  a  board  laid  across  the  front  for  the 
driver.  There  were  three  horses  attached;  and  the 
spaces  under  the  chairs  were  choked  with  carpet 
bags,  comforters,  and  other  impediments  for  the  forest 
journey.  The  youthful  fare  breakfasted  in  haste ;  but, 
although  the  hour  was  so  early  that  candles  stood  on 
the  table,  Mrs.  Hart  had  provided  abundance  of  hot 


84  THE    FOREST. 

bread -cakes,  with  a  rasher  of  bacon  and  eggs,  and 
fragrant  coffee,  with  hot  milk  and  fresh-drawn  cream. 
The  pies,  cake,  and  sweetmeat,  of  the  preceding  night, 
made  a  figure  also,  but  passed,  as  before,  untouched. 

But  St.  Clair  was  absent.  The  morning  had  found 
him  with  either  a  pleurisy,  or  a  rheumatism  so  aggra 
vated,  that  he  could  hardly  turn  himself  in  bed. 
This  misfortune  excited  great  commiseration  and 
many  regrets,  which  on  the  part  of  Alban  and  Miss 
De  Groot,  in  particular,  were  expressed  with  great 
liveliness. 

.''.:•»'•  ~^> 

"  Poor  George !  "  said  Jane,  hastily  swallowing  her 
coffee.  "I  am  really  sorry  for  him.  What  a  disap 
pointment  ! " 

There  were  no  means,  however,  of  mending  the 
matter,  and  no  time  for  regrets.  The  ladies  kissed 
each  other;  the  gentlemen  shook  hands;  Alban  ran 
up  to  St.  Glair's  room  to  bid  him  good-bye,  in  his 
own  and  in  the  ladies'  name.  Finally,  they  all  got 
in.  The  young  ladies  were  placed  in  the  two  middle 
chairs,  where  the  jolting  was  expected  to  be  least ; 
Alban  and  Margaret  were  over  the  front  wheels,  and 
the  two  guides  (Morrell  and  Courtney)  behind.  The 
Indian  had  gone  on  at  an  earlier  hour.  The  men 
had  their  rifles,  and  the  dogs  went  scampering  ahead 
in  great  spirits,  as  the  old  lumber  wagon  dashed  away 


THE    FOKEST.  85 

over  the  broken  road,  white  with  yesterday's  snow. 
The  sun  rose,  and  threw  a  beautiful  light  over  the 
patches  of  clearing  along  the  lake ;  and  the  deep 
green  or  golden  tints  of  the  unshorn  hills  showed, 
with  a  brilliant  and  strange  effect,  through  the  white 
mantle  that  lay  over  them. 

A  slight  embarrassment  flushed  the  cheeks  of 
Alban  and  Miss  De  Groot,  as  they  exchanged  the 
last  greeting,  and  drove  away  from  the  friends  they 
were  leaving  behind;  nor  did  it  immediately  depart 
as  they  clattered  along  in  the  jolting  wagon;  but 
Jane,  much  gayer  in  aspect,  had  an  eager,  excited  air, 
like  a  child  who,  even  at  the  moment  of  setting  out 
on  a  ride,  fears  to  be  left  behind.  A  more  imminent 
peril  soon  engaged  her  attention;  for,  with  no  small 
degree  of  moral  courage,  as  we  have  seen,  she  was 
physically  timid. 

"It  will  kill  me  to  be  so  jolted,"  cried  she,  at 
first,  turning  pale,  and  grasping  her  cousin's  chair. 
Then,  when  the  wagon  suddenly  canted  into  a  deep 
hole,  — 

"  Oh !  I  shall  certainly  be  thrown  out.  Do,  Alban, 
make  him  drive  slower." 

Alban  shouted  to  the  old  man  to  drive  more 
gently. 

"  Oui,  oui,"  cried  the  deaf  old  Canadian,  turning 


86  THE    FOKEST. 

round  his  foxy,  furry  face,  with  a  grim  smile,  and 
drove  faster  than  before. 

Jane  was  soon  half  frantic.  "Dear  Alban,  do 
make  him  stop !  " 

He  succeeded  in  stopping  Durand,  and  reasoned 
with  her. 

"  My  dear  Jane,  this  kind  of  wagon  can  scarcely, 
by  any  possibility,  be  overturned.  We  came  just  in 
this  style  from  Louis,  after  dark.  The  old  fellow 
knows  what  he  is  about.  See  the  firmness  of  Miss 
De  Groot." 

"It  is  of  no  use  reasoning  with  me,  Alban,"  Jane 
replied.  "I  cannot  help  being  frightened  to  death 
when  the  wagon  turns  over." 

"  But  the  wagon  does  not  turn  over,  child." 

"  Let  me  change  places  with  you,  Mr.  Alban,"  Miss 
De  Groot  said.  "If  you  could  support  your  cousin, 
she  would  feel  less  alarm." 

"  Oh,  you  will  fall  out,  sitting  there  forward,"  said 
Jane. 

But  the  exchange  was  made,  Miss  De  Groot  gen 
erously  insisting.  They  dashed  on  again.  Jane  was 
still  nervous,  but  no  longer  screamed.  When  they 
bounded  over  a  rock,  or  dipped  into  a  gulley,  or  went 
canting  along  the  side  of  a  bank,  at  an  angle  of  forty- 
five  degrees,  she  contented  herself  with  slight  exclama- 


THE    FOREST.  87 

tions  of  fear.  Under  these  circumstances  there  could 
be  little  conversation ;  Miss  De  Groot  had  enough  to 
do  to  keep  her  new  place,  and  Margaret  slipped  down 
into  the  straw  on  the  bottom  of  the  wagon.  Once  a 
partridge  ran  across  the  snowy  road,  and  Alban  got 
out,  went  into  the  wood  with  Morrell,  and  shot  it.  By 
and  by  the  road  became  so  bad  that  the  wagon  could 
no  longer  get  on  as  fast  as  a  man  could  walk,  when  the 
guides  leaped  out,  and  pushed  on  afoot. 

The  ladies  would  gladly  have  walked  too ;  but  the 
miriness  of  the  road  put  it  out  of  the  question.  Even 
Margaret,  to  whom  a  bog  should  have  been  a  native 
element,  after  wading  a  short  distance  in  the  mud, 
miring  her  stockings  and  losing  a  shoe,  gave  it  up 
and  resumed  her  seat  in  the  straw.  In  this  way  they 
scarcely  made  two  miles  and  a  half  in  an  hour,  and  the 
commonplace  difficulties  of  the  journey  began  to  be 
severely  felt. 

About  noon  they  reached  a  small  prairie,  where 
Morrell  and  Courtney  were  waiting  for  the  wagon  to 
come  up.  The  wheels  rolled  smoothly  over  the  grassy 
track,  which  soon  plunged  into  a  wood,  and  became 
obstructed  with  roots  of  trees.  The  old  Canadian 
turned  out  at  the  first  clear  space,  and  came  to  a  halt. 

"Here  the  ladies  take  horses,"  observed  Morrell, 
coming  up. 


88  THE    FOREST. 

"  Thank  Heaven  !  "  said  Mary  De  Groot. 

They  rested  here  about  an  hour;  during  which 
time  they  lunched,  and  the  horses  were  fed ;  and  then 
they  got  again  in  motion.  The  guides  led  the  way, 
laden  with  carpet-bags,  provision-sacks,  extra-cloaks, 
and  coverlets,  and  their  own  rifles.  The  three  females 
were  mounted,  to  the  great  terror  of  Margaret,  who  had 
never  sat  on  a  horse  before  in  her  life.  Old  Durand 
was  obliged  to  lead  her  pony.  The  path  sometimes 
plunged  into  deep  ravines ;  at  others  it  crossed  marshy 
brooks  ;  as  they  proceeded,  it  grew  more  and  more 
entangled  with  roots  and  fallen  trees ;  often  it  was  very 
difficult  to  distinguish  it  from  the  surrounding  forest: 
yet  the  guides  pressed  on  without  hesitation.  They 
rested  every  hour.  At  the  first  stopping-place,  the 
drum  of  a  partridge  called  Alban  and  Morrell  again 
into  the  woods.  A  shot  was  heard,  and  then  another, 
and  they  returned  with  two  fine  birds.  The  woods 
were  alive  with*  pigeons,  of  which  they  took  little 
notice,  after  they  had  shot  about  a  dozen  for  supper. 

By  and  by  they  came  to  a  broad  swamp,  or  rather 
arm  of  a  lake,  which  overflowed  the  low  lands.  The 
forest  was  filled  with  water.  Here  it  was  necessary  to 
cross  on  trunks  of  fallen  trees,  which  formed  a  series  of 
dizzy  bridges,  resting  on  piers  of  mud  and  snag.  The 
horses  had  to  be  swum  over  in  the  deepest  parts.  Here 


THE    FOKEST.  89 

Margaret  Dolman  showed  herself  unexpectedly  brave 
and  steady,  by  crossing  on  the  logs  without  assistance. 
Jane  declared  it  was  quite  out  of  the  question,  her 
crossing  —  she  should  certainly  fall  in,  —  and  asked  if 
they  could  not  make  a  raft,  but  finally  assigned  a  hand 
to  her  cousin  and  one  to  Morrell,  and  was  led  safely 
over.  Miss  De  Groot,  with  some  girlish  laughter, 
crossed  between  Courtney  and  old  Durand.  So  they 
mounted  again,  and  on,  over  higher  grounds,  the  rising 
shore  of  a  lake.  The  path  was  smoother  and  more 
solid  beneath  their  feet. 

11  To  judge  by  what  I  feel,"  said  Alban,  toiling  up 
an  ascent,  beside  Miss  De  Groot,  "  you  must  be  horri 
bly  tired." 

"  You  are  on  foot  and  carrying  that  heavy  gun." 

"It  is  no  joke  to  shoulder  it  for  three  hours  on  a 
stretch,  and  keep  up  with  horses  on  such  a  path." 

"  I  could  easily  carry  your  gun  in  my  lap.  Let  me 
try,"  said  Mary. 

"  Thank  you !  You  don't  suppose  I  would  let  a 
woman  carry  my  gun  for  me  !  " 

"  But  just  for  a  little  while !  to  see  if  I  can.  Come, 
I  would  like  to  do  it." 

"  You  will  soon  have  enough  of  it,"  said  Alban, 
laying  it  across  her  knee.  "  Take  care  what  you  do  !" 
he  cried,  catching  it,  and  half  stopping  the  horse. 


90  THE    FOREST. 

"  You  will  be  dragged  off  the  horse  by  the  first  tree, 
and  get  a  terrible  fall,  if  you  go  that  way  to  work." 

"  I  understand  now.  Let  me  keep  it,  I  pray  you," 
said  the  young  lady;  and  she  rode  on,  turning  away 
her  face. 

He  fell  back  and  accosted  his  cousin,  who  was  pale. 

"  How  soon  shall  we  get  to  the  boats  ?  " 

"  In  another  hour." 

"  Oh,  I  shall  never  be  able  to  endure  another.  I 
am  nearly  dead  with  fatigue.  Why  may  I  not  get  off 
and  walk  ?  I  could  easily  walk  an  hour." 

"  It  would  take  you  two  hours  to  walk  the  distance 
that  you  will  ride  in  one.  Bear  it  a  little  longer,  my 
dear  Jane.  See  how  well  Miss  De  Groot  keeps  up. 
She  is  even  carrying  my  gun." 

"I  see  that  she  is,"  replied  Jane. 

Miss  De  Groot  looked  back  and  proposed  another 
change.  She  was  riding  (what  had  been  given  to  her 
as  the  best  horsewoman  of  the  party)  a  man's  saddle  — 
an  old-fashioned  pillion;  —  one  of  the  stirrups  being 
passed  over  to  supply  the  place  of  a  horn. 

"I  find  it  very  fatiguing  to  ride  so,"  said  she, 
smiling.  "  But  let  me  have  Jane's  horse,  Mr.  Alban, 
and  do  you  mount  mine,  and  take  up  your  cousin 
behind  you  on  the  pillion.  It  will  rest  us  both." 

"I  can  never  sit  on  a  pillion,"  said  Jane. 


THE    FOREST.  91 

"Indeed  you  can,"  replied  the  youth,  lifting  her 
off  the  saddle.  "  And  yon  fallen  tree  will  serve  for  a 
horse-block." 

So  the  change  was  made. 

"  Now  clasp  me  tighter,  my  fair  cousin,  or  you  will 
surely  slip  off.  There !  that's  right.  Now  don't  you 
feel  secure  ?  " 

They  made  a  pretty  picture  as  the  party  denied 
through  the  leaf-strewn  woods. 

"  Let  me  not  think  of  any  thing  but  the  great  end 
of  my  journey !  "  said  Mary  De  Groot,  turning  her  eyes 
from  them  as  she  followed  on  her  new  palfrey.  "  Mo 
ther  of  Mercy!  obtain  for  me  that  I  may  merit  by 
acts  of  perfect  self-renunciation  thy  compassion  for  my 
dear  father,  and  thy  protection  for  myself. " 

The  one  hour  extended  to  nearly  two.  They 
gained  a  point  whence  several  lakes  were  visible  at 
once,  imbosomed  in  a  magnificent  sweep  of  coloured 
hills,  from  which  the  October  sun  had  already  cleared 
the  snow.  They  descended  for  some  twenty  minutes 
through  a  clean  grove  of  purple-clad  oaks.  In  the 
Fall  of  the  leaf,  the  penitential  season  of  Nature,  the 
young  oaks  wear  violet  chasubles,  like  priests  in  Lent. 
The  party  at  length  emerged  upon  the  shore  of  a  lake, 
some  miles  in  length,  and  overlooked  by  the  loftiest 
and  wildest  summits  they  had  yet  seen.  Under  a  low 


yz  THE    FOEEST. 

shanty,  or  rather  booth,  composed  of  four  uprights  sup 
porting  a  shed  of  dry,  yellow  boughs,  sat,  motionless  as 
a  statue,  the  Indian  Pierre.  The  bank  was  high  and 
steep,  and  below  stretched  a  narrow  beach  of  sand, 
where  three  light  canoes  were  drawn  up. 

The  ladies  were  lifted  off  their  horses ;  even  Miss 
De  Groot  confessing  herself  helpless  after  the  last  two 
hours. 

"  I  can  well  believe  it,"  said  Alban  ;  —  "  and  now," 
he  continued,  while  they  leaned  against  a  tree,  regard 
ing  the  boats  below,  which  promised  a  prolongation  of 
the  journey,  "  do  not  quite  despair.  I  am  going  to 
allow  you  a  half-hour's  rest  before  we  start  again.  We 
will  spread  the  comforters,  lay  carpet-bags  for  pillows, 
and  leave  you." 

"  A  thousand  thanks,"  said  Mary  De  Groot,  in  the 
sweetest  and  most  courteous  tone,  in  spite  of  her 
fatigue. 

The  horses  were  stabled  beneath  a  spreading  pine, 
on  the  fine,  soft  floor  formed  by  its  droppings.  It  was 
too  late  to  think  of  threading  back  the  forest  and 
fording  the  swamp  that  night :  but  old  Durand  was  an 
ancient  trapper,  and  to  him  a  shanty  roofed  with  dry 
boughs  was  a  luxury  —  the  superfluous.  The  guides 
and  Pierre  barely  allowed  the  half-hour  to  elapse.  The 
Indian,  as  they  stood  upon  the  beach,  pointed  out  to 


THE    FOREST.  93 

Alban  the  long  shadows  of  the  western  mountains 
already  covering  the  feet  of  those  on  the  eastern  shore 
of  the  lake.  He  returned  to  the  ladies. 

Miss  De  Groot  had  sprung  to  her  feet  at  the  first 
rustle  of  his  footstep  on  the  dry  leaves  of  the  bank. 
Jane  lay  on  the  coverlet,  under  the  booth,  with  a  cloak 
thrown  over  her. 

"She  says  that  she  must  stay  all  night  where  she 
is,"  observed  Mary. 

"No  doubt  you  are  both  very  tired,"  answered  he. 
"  You  will  rest,  however,  in  being  rowed  up  the  lake, 
nearly  as  well  as  here,  and  we  shall  find  much  better 
accommodations,  they  tell  me,  on  the  opposite  shore." 

"It  does  not  appear  to  me  possible  to  stay  here," 
said  Mary,  who  was  trembling  in  every  limb. 

"Certainly  not.  If  it  should  come  on  to  rain,  a 
shower  would  drive  through  those  boughs  in  no  time. 
At  the  other  end  of  the  lake,  I  am  informed,  there 
is  a  regular  bark  shanty." 

He  went  under  the  booth,  and  knelt  by  Jane.  She 
never  opened  her  eyes. 

"Eemember,  Jane,  that  the  Atherton  blood  flows 
in  your  veins.  "Will  you  be  less  courageous  and  hardy 
than  Miss  De  Groot." 

"You  shall  not  be  ashamed  of  me,  Alban."  She 
threw  off  the  cloak,  and  he  aided  her  to  rise. 


94  THE    FOREST. 

The  guides  carried  down  the  various  impediments. 
Alban  conducted  his  cousin  down  the  bank,  followed 
by  Miss  De  Groot  and  Margaret.  The  latter  were 
consigned  to  Pierre ;  Jane  to  Morrell ;  Atherton  him 
self,  and  the  luggage,  were  conducted  by  Courtney. 
Jane  had  here  another  little  fright;  for  the  canoes 
were  so  light  that  they  danced  in  the  water  like  egg 
shells  at  the  least  motion,  and  it  seemed  that  the 
softest  tread  of  a  lady's  foot  would  go  right  through 
their  thin  bottoms,  or  a  pound  weight  too  much  on 
one  side  overset  them;  they  were  the  likest  to  fairy 
barks  that  any  could  conceive.  Mary  De  Groot 
stepped  into  hers  like  a  sylph,  and  sank  into  her 
place  in  the  stern  without  disturbing  the  soft  equi 
librium  of  the  buoyant  craft;  and  Alban  placed  his 
cousin.  The  three  canoes  were  soon  but  specks  on 
the  lake  to  the  eyes  of  old  Durand,  who  watched 
their  progress  as  he  heaped  his  crackling  fire  with  dry 
brushwood. 


THE    FOEEST.  95 


CHAPTEK    VII. 


Itur  in  antiquara  silvam,  stabula  alta  ferarura. 
Procumbunt  picese  ;  sonat  icta  securibus  ilex. 

VIEGIL. 

Lysander.  Here  is  my  bed  :  Sleep  give  you  all  his  rest ! 
Hermia.  With  half  that  wish  the  wisher's  eyes  be  pressed. 

Midsummer- -Night's  Dream. 


ATHERTON  could  not  resist  a  feeling  of  anxiety  when 
lie  perceived  the  last  gleam  of  rosy  sunlight  lift  off 
the  summits  of  the  eastern  mountains,  and  tinge 
alone  the  long  streamers  of  cirri  floating  above  them, 
while  yet  a  part  of  their  liquid,  gliding  journey 
remained  unaccomplished.  To  land  the  females  on  a 
wild  forest  shore,  and  conduct  them  to  a  bark  shanty 
in  the  woods,  after  dark,  was  at  least  an  embarrassing 
prospect  to  contemplate,  on  the  score  of  its  mere 
physical  difficulties,  apart  from  the  feminine  fears  of 
his  charge,  and  the  fatigues  they  had  already  under 
gone. 

Yet  the  gleam  of  twilight  had  nearly  faded  from 


96  THE    FOKEST. 

the  lake,  and  the  evening  star  shone  bright  and  not 
unattended,  in  the  clear  expanse  above  the  black  and 
jagged  profile  of  the  western  mountains,  when  the 
skiffs  successively  touched  the  smooth  sand  of  a  long, 
tongue-like  point. 

It  was  not  possible  to  draw  up  the  canoes  upon 
the  shore,  as  the  guides  were  wont  with  the  light, 
but  far  less  delicately  constructed  boats  to  which  they 
were  accustomed  ;  for  a  hasty  step,  as  we  have  said, 
would  have  sufficed  to  go  through  the  bottom  of  one 
of  the  former,  when  not  resting  in  a  yielding  element ; 
and  it  was  an  affair  involving  some  tact  to  effect  a 
disembarkation  of  the  ladies  without  a  wetting  of  foot 
or  skirt.  It  was  at  length  accomplished,  however, 
and  the  party  proceeded  up  the  point  under  the 
guidance  of  Pierre.  At  its  termination  a  high  bank 
presented  itself,  which,  overtopping  their  heads,  and 
projecting  more  above  than  below,  appeared  an  in 
superable  barrier  to  feminine  progress.  Indeed,  but 
for  the  long,  snaky  roots  which  pierced  it,  offering  a 
hold  to  the  climber,  it  would  have  been  difficult 
even  to  a  man. 

Pierre  quickly  ascended  it,  and  appeared  to  expect 
the  rest  to  follow ;  a  squaw  with  a  papoose  lashed  to 
her  back  would  have  done  so  easily ;  the  white  men 
were  puzzled. 


THE    FOEEST.  97 

"We  never  can  get  up  there,"  said  Jane. 
"And  you  certainly  cannot   stay  here  all  night," 
returned  her  cousin.      "  We  must  get  you  up  some 
how." 

The  simple  Courtney  suggested  that  they  might 
clamber  up  by  the  aid  of  the  roots,  if  they  were 
"boosted"  by  Mr.  Atherton,  from  whom  he  appeared 
to  think  they  would  not  scruple  to  accept  that  assist 
ance.  Margaret,  in  her  Celtic  innocence,  deeming 
this  method  feasible,  made  trial,  and,  assisted  by 
Courtney  himself,  in  the  manner  he  had  suggested, 
actually  gained  the  top  of  the  bank ;  but  the  success 
of  this  experiment  had  rather  the  effect  of  exciting 
the  mirth  of  the  young  ladies  than  of  encouraging 
them  to  repeat  it.  Their  laughter,  however,  was  short 
and  painful,  for  the  detention  was  a  serious  matter  at 
that  hour;  Pierre,  from  above,  was  impatient  to  a 
strange  degree  for  an  Indian :  the  other  two  guides 
were  bewildered,  and  seemed  without  resources. 

"I  have  it,"  said  Atherton,  breaking  from  a 
revery.  "Courtney,  run  and  fetch  one  of  the  boat 
seats." 

A  seat  was  brought,  and  by  Atherton's  directions 
two  of  the  men  held  it  so  that  a  lady  could  step 
upon  it,  when  it  was  gradually  raised,  till,  assisted 
by  two  more  upon  the  bank  above,  she  could  easily 


98  THE    FOREST. 

spring  upon  the  mossy  and  crumbling  edge.  Night 
had  settled  upon  mountain,  shore,  and  lake  when 
this  difficulty  was  overcome.  And  they  stood  di 
rectly  under  the  eaves,  as  it  were,  of  a  forest  of 
impenetrable  gloom. 

Pierre  plunged  directly  into  it. 

"  We  ought  to  have  torches,"  Alban  said. 

"If   we    know'd    where    to     get    'em,"    observed 
Courtney. 

"  Oh,  this  is  frightful ! "  said  Jane,  but  in  a  re 
signed  tone. 

The  way  ascended  rapidly,  and  was  proportionably 
fatiguing,  being  much  obstructed,  too,  by  fallen  trunks 
of  trees  and  frequent  underwood,  and  from  time  to 
time  by  ledges  of  rock,  which  it  was  necessary  to 
make  a  circuit  to  pass,  and  that  by  rude  climbing, 
while  the  darkness  was  of  an  intensity,  of  which  those 
unaccustomed  to  the  American  forest  can  form  no  idea. 
But  for  the  absolute  necessity,  it. would  have  seemed 
impossible  to  proceed.  Eegular  path  there  was  not  a 
vestige  of,  and  had  there  been,  it  would  have  been 
impossible  in  that  midnight  darkness  even  for  an 
Indian  to  follow  it.  The  only  guiding  circumstance 
was  the  sound  of  rushing  and  falling  waters  on  their 
left,  which  grew  more  distinct  as  they  advanced;  and 
once  the  sharp,  terror-striking  cry  of  a  wild  animal 


THE    FOEEST.  99 

was  heard,  and   every  now   and   then   a  screech-owl 
caused  the  forest  to  ring  with  his  fiendish  alarum. 

The  wild  noises,  the  rayless  gloom,  the  precipitous 
and  broken  nature  of  the  ground,  and  the  labyrinth 
of  logs,  mouldering  trees,  and  half-decayed  branches, 
softened  by  occasional  springs  of  trickling  moisture, 
of  which  the  oozing  mountain  was  full,  struck  the 
females  with  dismay,  and  inspired  uneasiness  in  the 
stouter  heart  of  Atherton,  for  his  tender  charge, 
though  not  for  himself. 

When  this  laborious  and  frightful  progress  had 
been  continued  for  about  twenty-five  or  thirty  minutes, 
which  seemed  at  least  an  hour,  Jane,  who  had  borne 
it  all  far  more  uncomplainingly  than  any  of  her 
previous  sufferings,  just  as  the  ground  was  getting  to 
ascend  more  gradually,  suddenly  sank  down  upon  a 
half-decayed  trunk,  and  partly  buried  in  the  soil, 
over  which  she  had  just  been  helped,  and  in  a  voice 
of  distress  declared  that  she  could  go  no  further. 
The  party  came  to  a  halt. 

"  What  is  to  be  done  now,  Mr.  Atherton  ?  "  asked 
Morrell. 

"  How  much  further  have  we  yet,  Pierre  ?  " 
"  Leetle  way  —  leetle  way !  " 
"  How  long  will  it  take  us  ?  " 
"  Five  minute  —  ten  minute." 


100  THE    FOREST. 

"Let  us  make  a  lady's  chair  and  carry  her,"  said 
Miss  De  Groot. 

"The  two  men  are  heavily  laden  already,"  re 
marked  Atherton.  "  Pierre's  hands  are  full  with  the 
guns." 

"But  I  will  help  you  make  a  lady's  chair,  Mr. 
Alban.  I  am  pretty  strong." 

"  You !  "  exclaimed  Atherton.  "  I  thank  you.  I 
can  carry  her  very  well  myself. " 

So  saying  he  caught  her  up. 

"Now,  Miss  De  Groot,  take  hold  of  my  cousin's 
shawl  to  conduct  us ;  and  follow-  Mr.  Morrell." 

They  moved  on  again.  Once  Alban  tripped  and 
came  down  upon  one  knee.  He  rose  without  having 
dropped  his  burden.  Over  logs,  and  around  them, 
through  a  deep  brook,  wading  to  the  knee,  (Mary 
leaped  lightly  over  it,)  up  a  dry  water-course  rough 
with  stones,  he  laboured  with  the  half-fainting  girl  in 
his  arms.  At  length  he  staggered  into  a  small  clearing, 
where,  under  a  low  shanty,  he  knelt  and  set  her  down. 
"What  passed  there  we  are  not  supposed  to  know,  but 
it  is  our  belief  that  before  she  unwound  her  weak 
arms  from  his  neck,  Jane  thanked  him  in  the  most 
expressive  way  that  a  cousin  could;  and  the  ardent 
answer  of  the  youth  was  not  unwitnessed. 

"It  has  been  a  hard  day  for  her,  but  it  is  over 


THE    FOKEST.  101 

now,"  said  he,  rising,  and  yielding  the  place  to  Miss 
De  Groot,  who  was  already  close  by  their  side. 

The  guides  unloaded;  the  coverlets  were  spread 
on  the  shanty  floor.  Pierre  struck  a  light  from  the 
flint.  Dry  leaves  and  punk  caught  the  spark;  dry 
brushwood  burst  into  a  light,  crackling  blaze;  Frag 
ments  of  pine,  reeking  with  pitch,  next  burned  fiercely. 
Morrell's  axe  already  resounded.  A  young  beech 
crashed,  and,  sweeping  down,  enlarged  the  little  clear 
ing.  The  long,  green  branches  were  lopped  off  and 
fed  the  growing  fire,  and  soon,  the  tree  itself,  cut 
into  logs  some  ten  feet  long,  was  piled  on  in  regular 
order,  and  the  flames  curled  irresistibly  round  the 
mossy,  lead-coloured  bark. 

As  soon  as  the  fire  was  kindled,  the  Indian  gave 
himself  no  further  trouble ;  but  the  white  guides,  with 
Margaret,  fell  to  preparing  supper ;  and  Alban,  who  at 
Louis  had  always  enjoyed  the  fun  and  romance  of 
participating  in  these  labours,  now  looked  on  with  as 
little  disposition  to  assist,  as  was  evinced  by  Pierre. 
He  was  not  idle,  however,  nor,  in  spite  of  his  recent 
toil,  surrendered  himself  yet  to  ignoble  rest.  Many 
and  grave,  in  truth,  are  the  thoughts  which  occupy 
the  LEADER.  The  buoyancy  of  youth  sustained  itself 
in  his  heart,  yet  the  consciousness  of  authority  made 
him  serious. 


102  THE    FOREST. 

The  shanty  was  smaller  than  that  at  Louis.  On 
the  other  hand,  as  the  scene  became  illuminated  by 
the  fire,  there  appeared  on  one  side  a  dining-hall  of 
superior  pretensions.  Stout  poles,  driven  into  the 
ground,  supported  a  bark  canopy,  beneath  which  was 
a  table  of  the  same  material,  but,  being  protected  from 
the  rains,  smooth  and  unwarped.  The  seats  were  logs 
squared  with  the  axe,  and  cushioned  with  bark,  the 
rough  side  up,  and  curling  finely  over  the  edges.  This 
lake  was  celebrated  for  its  speckled  treasures,  and 
every  year  it  was  visited  by  a  small  club  of  adven 
turous  fishermen,  who  had  built  this  shanty  (so  Mor- 
rell  said)  only  the  last  Spring. 

As  usual,  the  site  had  been  chosen  near  a  spring 
of  purest  water,  which,  welling  forth  abundantly, 
formed  a  deep  and  clear  fountain,  celebrated  among 
the  hunters  (as  it  appeared)  for  its  coldness  and 
abundance.  Doubtless  it  was  distilled  in  deep,  sunless 
clefts  of  the  mountain,  where  the  winter's  ice  and 
snow  never  wholly  melted.  There  was  something 
mysterious  in  that  cold,  clear,  and  full  current,  gush 
ing  out  of  the  rocky  side  of  the  superincumbent 
mountain,  not  like  an  ordinary  spring,  but  rather  the 
escape  of  a  subterranean  brook  —  the  dark  and  gurgling 
flood  of  some  long  and  labyrinthine  cave,  here  bursting 
into  light.  The  overflow  ran  over  a  surface  of  rock, 


THE    FOREST.  103 

and  fell  into  a  second  basin,  worn  by  itself  in  the 
cliff:  for  the  ground,  on  that  side,  descended  almost 
precipitously  to  the  lake.  Alban  explored  these 
localities  with  the  aid  of  a  pine  torch.  It  could  not 
but  strike  him  as  an  extraordinary  spot,  and  one 
that  must  in  after  times  become  famous.  The  vast 
and  toppling  weight  of  the  mountain  lying  above,  and 
sweeping  up  to  the  stars;  the  broad  lake  spreading 
belc  w ;  the  steep,  circumambient  forest ;  and  that 
cold,  gushing  fount,  made  the  locality  impressive. 

Eeturning  to  the  camp-fire,  Alban  was  struck  with 
the  picturesqueness  of  the  scene  it  afforded.  Morrell's 
spare,  sinewy  frame,  and  eagle  look,  bending  over 
the  flame  to  prepare  the  evening  meal,  and  Courtney's 
heavier,  although  more  youthful  form,  and  surly  but 
honest  aspect,  as  he  assisted  in  the  same  operation, 
contrasted  with  the  apathetic  bronze  figure  of  the 
Indian,  sitting  as  motionless  as  if  he  had  really  been 
cast  in  metal ;  while  the  softer  glow  of  the  fire  warmed 
and  illumined  the  interior  of  the  shanty,  where  a  red 
shawl,  twisted  into  some  graceful  lines,  marked  the 
reposing  form  of  Jane,  and  Mary  De  Groot,  sitting 
with  her  feet  gathered  beneath  her  gray  robe,  regarded 
the  group  of  guides  with  an  abstracted  air.  On  every 
side,  the  straight  boles  of  the  forest  caught  the  light, 
and  were  defined  by  it  against  the  hollow  darkness 


104  THE    FOKEST. 

beyond.  Over  head,  the  patch  of  dark-blue  sky 
with  stars,  was  intercepted  only  by  the  gray  smoke 
that  continually  went  aloft,  brightened  by  many  a  red 
spark. 

The  repast  being  ready,  Margaret  stuck  a  lighted 
tallow-candle,  which  promised  to  run  famously,  into  a 
notch  of  one  of  the  uprights  of  the  dining-table 
canopy.  Alban  and  Miss  De  Groot  placed  themselves 
at  the  table,  for  Jane  refused  to  stir.  Courtney's 
brawny  hand  extended  a  frying-pan  of  trout,  red 
and  fragrant  —  Pierre's  contribution  from  the  lake. 

"Will  you  say  grace?"  asked  Alban,  with  a 
smile. 

Miss  De  Groot  complied.  The  guides  speculated 
on  this  incident  over  their  cooking. 

"  She  's  a  professor,  I  reckon,  and  he  is  n't," 
observed  Morrell. 

"No,"  answered .  Courtney,  "I  guess  he's  a  pro 
fessor,  but  not  a  member." 

"Well,  I  thought  he  was  a  professor,"  said  Mor 
rell,  simple  with  all  his  woodcraft. 

Margaret  offered  Mr.  Atherton  tea,  but  to  her 
mistress  a  mug  of  water  from  the  ice-cold  spring. 
To  the  trout  succeeded  the  plumpest  and  tenderest 
of  the  partridges  shot  in  the  morning,  served  by 
Morrell  in  tempting  style  on  a  hemlock  chip. 


THE    FOREST.  105 

"Morrell  is  an  adept  in  forest  cookery,"  observed 
Alban. 

"  I  should  really  enjoy  this,  if  your  cousin  could 
be  prevailed  on  to  partake  of  it  with  us,"  said  Mary. 
"It  distresses  me  to  see  that  she  suffers  so  much." 

Jane,  however,  accepted  from  Margaret  a  cup  of 
strong  tea,  sweetened  with  loaf-sugar,  but  of  course 
unmollified  by  milk.  Alban  rose,  and  approaching 
his  cousin,  good-naturedly  compelled  her  to  eat  some 
savoury  morsels  of  partridge  with  which,  laughing, 
but  rather  despotically,  he  fed  her.  She  submitted 
like  a  wearied  child,  half  crying,  but  when,  revived 
by  the  stimulating  taste  and  odour,  she  demanded  a 
dry  biscuit,  he  let  her  off. 

"A  good  night's  rest  will  restore  her,"  he  said, 
resuming  his  seat  with  a  moist  and  tender  gladness 
in  the  eye  that  did  not  misbecome  his  manhood. 

"I  trust  so,"  said  Mary,  quite  fervently. 

"We  all  need  it." 

"Where  are  the  guides  to  pass  the  night?"  asked 
Mary. 

"  They  will  build  another  fire  presently,  some  rods 
off  under  the  trees,  and  bivouac  by  it." 

"We  shall  hang  a  shawl  from  the  roof  of  the 
shanty  to  make  a  little  apartment  for  you." 

"The  shanty  is  sacred  to  your  use." 
5* 


106  THE    FOREST. 

"  But  yon  are  not  accustomed  to  sleep  under  the 
open  sky.  It  would  be  a  misplaced  delicacy,  that 
should  occasion  your  being  disabled  by  a  pleurisy, 
like  Mr.  St.  Glair." 

"Hang  your  shawl  in  front,  if  you  like,"  replied 
Alban,  rather  abruptly.  "It  will  serve  to  keep  off 
the  smoke,  which  is  sometimes  annoying.  But  no 
one  will  come  inside  of  your  fire,  after  you  have 
retired,  unless  to  replenish  it.  Your  tent  is  taboo,  to 
every  thing  in  the  shape  of  man,  of  course." 

"You  are  very  chivalrous,"  said  Mary. 

"  I  know  what  is  due  to  two  lovely  women,  in  the 
camp  which  is  honoured  by  their  presence." 

"You  treat  me  as  if  I  were  a  child,  to  make  me 
say  grace,"  she  replied  with  a  smile,  as  both  seemed 
to  have  finished  their  repast. 

Atherton  coloured  slightly,  and  presently  per 
formed  himself  the  duty  of  chaplain,  but  not  without 
a  certain  embarrassment.  It  was,  indeed,  a  curious 
trait  of  his,  to  be  self-possessed  in  important  and  un 
foreseen  conjunctures  —  awkward  and  nervous  in  slight, 
formal  acts.  Miss  De  Groot  smiled  as  she  rose  from 
her  log  seat,  and  they  vacated  the  table  for  the  guides, 
the  Indian,  and  Margaret. 

Mary  resumed  her  .place  at  Jane's  side.  Atherton 
half-reclined  upon  the  hemlock  boughs  at  their  feet. 


THE    FOREST.  107 

Jane,  in  spite  of  her  tea,  or  perhaps,  in  her  exhausted 
state,  in  consequence  of  it,  had  fallen  asleep.  Sweet 
is  repose  after  labours,  and  the  talk  of  friends  when 
free  after  long  restraint. 

"  How  does  being  a  Catholic  wear  with  me,  do  you 
ask,  Mr.  Alban  ?  Really,  the  question  is  a  strange  one 
to  my  ears.  I  had  almost  forgotten  that  I  was  ever 
any  thing  else." 

"  You  have  been  in  a  convent  since  I  saw  you." 

"As  a  boarder,"  replied  Mary,  with  a  slight  em 
phasis. 

"I  had  heard  as  a  postulant,"  said  Alban,  looking 
at  her. 

"  You  heard  wrong,"  replied  she,  with  some  quick 
ness. 

"  I  had  it  from  so  good  a  source  that  I  could  not 
help  believing  it,"  he  responded. 

"  Well,  it  was  not  true,"  said  Mary,  looking  away. 

"  You  have  changed  a  good  deal  in  personal  ap 
pearance  since  I  last  saw  you,"  said  Alban,  regarding 
her  for  the  first  time  with  a  young  man's  frank  admira 
tion  ;  "  though,  indeed,  I  should  have  known  you  any 
where." — And  he  smiled. 

"  I  have  grown  taller  ;  it  was  natural  at  my  age." 

"You  have  shot  up  —  not  like  a  weed,  precisely  — 
but  like  a  young  rose-tree.  It  is  not  only  in  stature 


108  THE    FOREST. 

that  you  have  gained,  but"  —  with  a  demure  look  — 
"  in  other  no  less  graceful  dimensions." 

"  Thank  you,  sir,"  replied  the  young  lady,  bending 
very  low  and  laughing  sweetly.  "  There  was  room  for 
improvement  in  both  respects.  I  was  a  slight  little 
thing." 

"  You  have  not  led  a  very  ascetic  life  in  your  con 
vent,  I  conclude." 

"  No,  only  a  simple  and  plain  one." 

'"  The  good  nuns  permitted  you  to  laugh  sometimes, 
I  conclude,  since  you  have  not  lost  the  habit." 

11  Oh,  indeed  !  I  laughed  a  great  deal.  Those  who 
measure  their  piety  by  the  length  of  their  faces  would 
be  sadly  out  of  place  among  those  excellent  sisters." 

"It  is  consoling  to  find  that  the  convent  agreed  so 
well  with  your  mental,  as  well  as  your  bodily  health." 

"  Oh  !  it  agreed  with  me  perfectly  —  as  you  see." 

"  What  convent  was  it  ?  " 

"  The  Ursulines  at  Quebec." 

"  What !  Not  of  the  Visitation ! "  exclaimed  Alban, 
involuntarily. 

"  I  do  not  understand  you,"  said  Mary,  with  a  puz 
zled  air. 

"No  matter,"  answered  Atherton.  "  Pray,  what 
took  you  so  far  as  Quebec,  may  I  ask?" 

"Why  the  Charlestown  convent  was  burned  last 


THE    FOREST.  109 

year,  you  know,  and  it  was  a  choice  between  Canada 
and  Maryland.  Papa,  for  some  reason,  preferred  the 
former,  perhaps  on  account  of  the  season." 

"  The  dress  of  the  Ursulines  is  white,  is  it  not  ?  " 

"  It  is." 

"  I  had  a  notion  —  that  is  to  say,  I  dreamed  (a  re 
markably  vivid  dream)  —  that  I  saw  you  take  the 
white  veil ;  and  I  afterwards  learned  that  the  dress  of 
the  nuns,  as  it  appeared  to  me,  was  that  of  the  Ladies 
of  the  Visitation." 

"  My  mother  was  educated  in  their  most  celebrated 
convent  in  France,"  said  Mary. 

"  Pray  describe  the   Quebec  convent,"  said  Alban. 

"  You  mean  the  building  ?  " 

"  Every  thing." 

"  Well,  the  house  consists  of  three  stories,  divided 
into  long  galleries,  with  cells,  halls,  and  chambers 
ranging  on  both  their  sides.  In  the  highest  story  are 
the  cells  of  the  nuns,  each  having  a  bed,  a  little  desk, 
and  a  chair,  and  hung  with  paper  pictures  of  the  saints. 
In  the  middle  story  is  a  large  room,  finely  painted  and 
adorned,  where  they  pass  the  day  together,  at  needle 
work,  embroidery,  flower-making,  and  so  forth.  They 
dine  in  a  refectory,  and  all  are  silent  except  the  nun 
who  reads.  Then  there  is  a  room  fitted  as  a  chapel, 
where  they  pray;  and  a  noble  hospital,  where  they 


110  THE    FOEEST. 

tend  the  sick.  The  whole  day  is  laid  out  so  as  to  be 
occupied  with  labour  or  prayer,  or  deeds  of  mercy  to 
the  neighbour,  leaving  only  what  is  necessary  to  sleep, 
food  and  recreation." 

"And  the  heart?" 

"Is  full  too  —  with  the  Heavenly  Spouse!"  said 
Mary. 

This  tone  seemed  more  natural  to  her  than  her 
previous  gayety  —  so  that  Alban  involuntarily  glanced 
at  her  garb  :  but  though  so  plain,  it  bore,  like  her 
gracefully  arranged  hair,  the  marks  of  studied  elegance, 
as  of  one  by  no  means  disposed  to  neglect  the  graces 
which  make  her  sex  attractive.  There  was  something, 
however,  in  the  air,  and  which  had  even  moulded  the 
figure,  of  this  young  lady,  that  expressed  an  habitual 
resistance  and  conflict :  —  a  bright  resolution  in  the  eye, 
an  heroic  carriage  of  the  head,  a  noble  expansion  of  the 
chest  beneath  its  grave  and  simple  vesture*. .._.  In  regard 
to  the  object  of  her  difficult  journey,  it  did  not  appear 
at  all  singular,  or  out  of  place  in  her,  that  she  showed 
little  or  no  depression  of  spirits,  that  she  was  cheerfuL 
and  open  to  lively  enjoyment  of  the  scenes  through 
which  she  was  passing.  Gracious,  too,  as  she  was  to 
Atherton,  her  very  friendliness  expressed  a  perfect 
oblivion  of  the  past.  No  shade  of  reserve  conveyed 
a  tacit  reproach,  or  revealed  a  hidden  sensibility. 


THE    FOREST.  Ill 

She  was  perfectly  natural,  in  short,  and  unconstrained, 
and  seemed  more  so  every  moment 

Suddenly  she  turned  the  conversation  so  as  to  sat 
isfy  her  own  curiosity  in  regard  to  himself. 

"  How  long  is  it,  Mr.  Alban,  since  you  were  received 
into  the  Church  ?  " 

"  I  entertain  just  a  shadow  of  doubt  whether  I  have 
ever  been  received  at  all." 

"How?" 

"  It  is  an  uncertainty  respecting  my  baptism,  which 
I  have  never  been  able  to  clear  up.  'Twas  but  last 
night  that  I  received  a  letter  from  my  uncle,  Bishop 
Grey,  which  leaves  me,  indeed,  in  as  great  a  doubt  as 
ever,  but  makes  my  course  plain.  The  next  priest  I 
meet  will  set  the  question  at  rest  for  ever,  by  the  act 
of  a  moment." 

"  Then  in  all  this  time  you  have  never  been  to  com 
munion  ?  "  said  Mary,  with  a  look  of  wonder  and  sym 
pathy. 

"That  has  been  the  trial  —  besides  a  little  fear  I 
have  been  in  for  my  soul ;  particularly  once  or  twice 
on  our  journey,  when  I  had  a  narrow  escape  with  my 
life.  But  a  grave  Sulpician  —  a  learned,  wise,  and  alto 
gether  delightful  man,  whom  I  met  in  Montreal  — 
quieted  and  encouraged  me  on  that  score.  He  ap 
proved  of  my  caution,  which  some  clergymen  I  have 


112  THE    FOBEST. 

met  blamed,  and  said  that  I  should  be  rewarded  in  the 
end  for  my  patience." 

"I  am  sure  you  will." 

"  The  heavenly  Artist  knows  the  exact  moment 
when  the  metal  is  ready  to  be  poured  into  the  mould 
of  eternal  charity." 

"  Most  true,"  said  Mary,  not  without  emotion. 
"What,"  added  she,  again  abruptly  changing  the 
theme  —  "  what  is  your  cousin's  religion  ?  " 

"  She  is  a  Presbyterian,  and  a  very  pious  one." 

"  You  were  brought  up  together,  I  believe." 

"  We  passed  several  years  of  our  childhood  under 
the  same  roof. " 

"  You  naturally  love  her  very  much." 

"  I  do." 

"  She  is  only  your  second  cousin,  I  believe." 

"  That  is  all." 

"  Do  you  hope  that  she  will  become  a  Catholic  ?  " 

"  Indeed,  I  see  no  present  probability  of  it." 

"  But  she  cannot  be  invincibly  ignorant,  after  being 
in  your  society  for  some  months." 

"Light  shines  sometimes  very  gradually  into  the 
soul." 

"  That  is  not  my  experience,  nor  yours,  Mr.  Alban." 

"It  shone  upon  us  all  at  once,  I  know,"  she  said.  — 
"  But  see !  the  guides  are  building  the  other  fire  in 


THE    FOREST.  113 

the  woods,"  once  more  changing  the  conversation  ab 
ruptly.  "  I  should  enjoy  this  life,  methinks.  And 
here  comes  Margaret.  Jane,  too,  stirs.  It  is  time,  I 
think,  that  we  ladies  pitched  our  tents  for  the  night." 

She  drew  forth  her  rosary. 

"  May  I  not  join  your  devotions?  "  asked  Alban. 

"Assuredly.  Margaret  and  I  generally  say  the 
third  part  of  the  Eosary ;  after  that,  we  sing  the  hymn 
to  our  Lady,  and  her  litany.  Shall  it  be  so  to-night  ?  " 

"  As  you  will." 

"  Don't  you  read  a  chapter  in  the  Bible  ? "  de 
manded  Jane. 

"  Yery  often.  There  is  a  bible  in  my  sac  de  nuit, 
Mr.  Alban,  if  you  would  like  to  read  a  chapter  for  our 
edification." 

Atherton  took  it,  and  read  the  fifth  chapter  of  St. 
Luke,  at  which  he  chanced  to  open. 

"  What  a  wonderful  chapter !  "  said  he  when  he 
had  finished.  "  How  many  mysteries  of  our  faith  are 
alluded  to  in  it!  Christ  teaches  from  Peter's  boat  •  sends 
the  cleansed  leper  to  the  priests ;  retires  to  the  desert  for 
prayer;  claims,  as  Son  of  Man,  the  power  of  forgiving 
sins ;  declares,  against  the  self-righteous  Pharisees,  that  he 
has  come  to  call  sinners  to  repentance,  and  prophesies  that 
his  disciples  shall  fast  in  the  future  times."  He  turned  to 
Jane  with  a  smile.  "  See,  in  this  one  chapter,  my  dear 


THE    FOREST. 

Jane,  the  Pope,  the  priesthood,  the  monks  and  hermits, 
the  absolutions,  the  scandals  of  bad  Catholics,  and  the 
bodily  mortification  encouraged  by  the  Church." 

"It  sounded  so,  hearing  you  read  it,"  said  Jane. 

"Henceforth,  then,  Jane,  you  cannot  plead  igno 
rance,"  said  he,  affectionately. 

The  voice  of  melody  rose  on  the  wild  forest,  and 
drowned  the  murmur  of  the  waterfall.  Mary's  voice, 
not  less  sweet  and  rich  than  of  old,  was  more  full- 
breasted  and  powerful :  at  times  it  quite  ran  to  waste. 
Margaret  Dolman  had  a  good  native  organ  of  well- 
strung  treble.  The  Indian  had  drawn  near  at  the 
first  sign  of  prayer,  and  knelt  at  Alban's  side ;  and 
when  Mary  began  to  chant  the  litany,  his  deep,  but 
not  harsh  bass  • — for  the  voices,  even  of  the  male 
Indians,  are  sweet  in  singing  —  chimed  in  with  power. 
Morrell  and  Courtney  stood  on  the  opposite  side  of  the 
shanty  fire,  listening  with  great  attention.  Jane  sat 
retired,  beneath  the  low  bark  roof,  the  red  shawl  half 
wound  around  her,  and  her  disordered  ringlets  hanging 
in  golden  confusion  about  her  face  and  throat.  It  was 
a  strange  harmony  of  the  dark,  stern,  and  rude,  with 
the  fair,  tender,  and  cultivated  forms  of  humanity: 
a  contrast,  too,  of  the  beauty  of  affection,  and  that 
of  heroic  will. 

The  guides  threw  themselves  upon  a  heap  of  boughs 


THE    FOKEST.  115 

by  their  separate  and  somewhat  distant  fire.  Margaret 
hung  a  shawl  along  the  front  of  the  shanty,  and  all  was 
soon  quiet  as  death,  within  this  simple  tent.  Atherton 
folded  his  cloak  about  him,  and  lay  down  under  the 
canopy  of  the  dining- table,  where,  after  removing  one 
of  the  log-seats,  Morrell  had  heaped  for  the  young 
leader  a  fresh  bed  of  hemlock,  and  a  pillow  of  balsam. 


116  THE    FOREST. 


CHAPTER    YIII. 

There  by  the  uncertain  glims  of  starry  night, 
And  by  the  twinkling  of  their  sacred  fire, 
He  mote  perceive  a  little  dawning  sight 
Of  all  that  there  was  doing  in  that  quire. 
With  that  he  thrusts  into  the  thickest  throng. 

Faerie  Queene. 

IT  yet  wanted  some  two  hours  of  day,  and  the 
shanty  fire  burned  low,  for  nearly  seven  hours  had 
elapsed  since  it  was  built  for  the  night ;  an  immense 
mass  of  log,  reduced  to  living  coals,  maintained,  how 
ever,  a  glowing  heat  immediately  in  front,  and  the 
extremities  of  a  great  pine,  with  which  the  pile  had 
been  last  replenished,  were  still  blazing,  when  the  cur 
tain  of  the  shanty  was  lifted  aside,  and  one  of  the  fair 
occupants  stole  forth,  and  rose  to  her  feet. 

All  the  camp  was  profoundly  quiet.  The  dogs  in 
their  kennel  of  bark,  the  guides  by  their  distant  fire, 
and  Atherton  close  by,  on  his  half-sheltered  couch, 
were  buried  in  sleep. 

The  lady  gazed  at  the  last,  timidly  at  first,  and  then 


THE    FOREST.  117 

steadily.  The  upper  part  of  his  person  was  enveloped 
in  his  cloak,  and  his  felt-hat  was  crushed  over  his  eyes, 
but  his  feet  were  uncovered  ;  and  in  the  earlier  part  of 
the  night,  when  the  side-heat  of  the  fire  reached  the 
spot  where  he  lay,  the  young  man  had  taken  off  his 
boots  to  dry. 

"  Oh,  what  an  imprudent  youth ! "  murmured  the 
lady.  "  How  cold  he  must  be  !  " 

Just  then  Atherton  drew  up  one  foot  under  the 
cloak,  but  it  slipped  down  again. 

"  Provoking  !  "  said  the  lady.  "  It 's  none  of  my 
business,  to  be  sure,  yet  Christian  charity  impels  me. 
What  damsel  in  the  olden  time  would  not  have  con 
descended  to  do  so  much"  for  so  brave  a  protector  ?  " 

She  stooped  under  the  curtain  again,  and  drew 
forth  a  cloak,  with  which  she  herself  might  have  been 
covered  during  the  night.  After  a  moment's  hesita 
tion,  she  approached  the  young  man,  and  kneeling, 
waited  for  a  repetition  of  the  movement  which  she  had 
before  observed ;  when,  by  taking  advantage  of  it,  with 
a  kind  of  feminine,  almost  mother-like,  tenderness  and 
skill,  she  contrived  to  envelop  the  exposed  extremities 
in  the  folds  of  the  mantle  without  disturbing  the 
sleeper.  When  this  had  been  successfully  achieved, 
she  gave  one  look  at  his  face  to  make  sure  that  she 
had  not  waked  him,  and  rising,  glided  away  into  the 


118  THE    FOREST. 

dark  behind  the  shanty,  quite  out  of  the  dull  fire- 
gleam. 

Groping  along  the  rock,  and  parting  the  bushes  that 
environed  it,  she  came  upon  the  sheltered  platform 
beneath  that  full  spring,  whose  tumbling  waters  sung 
constantly  in  the  night. 

Let  none  blame  the  lady's  kindness.  It  was  only  the 
return  (so  she  deemed)  which  every  noble  maiden  owes 
to  the  knight  who  exposes  himself  to  danger  and  hard 
ship  for  her  sake.  Where  there  is  generosity  and 
devotion  on  the  one  side,  there  ought  to  be  compassion 
and  kindness  on  the  other.  Otherwise  all  the  beauty 
and  dignity  of  the  intercourse  of  the  sexes  in  high 
civilization  were  entirely  lost.  Such  thoughts  ennobled, 
in  the  lady's  own  eyes,  the  trivial  service  she  had  ren 
dered  ;  and  a  princess  could  not  have  been  more  lofty 
in  her  humility  than  she,  while  covering  Atherton's 
feet  with  her  mantle.  And  the  stockings  were  stained 
and  damp  withal. 

The  spot  where  she  now  found  herself  has  been 
already  in  part  described.  The  rock  formed  a  sort  of 
arch  overhead,  whence,  at  the  height  of  some  ten  or 
twelve  feet,  the  water  poured  and  dripped  into  a  deep 
basin  which  it  had  worn  for  itself  in  the  cliff.  Then  it 
lay  in  a  black  pool  behind  as  far  as  the  base  of  the 
vault,  while  the  overflow  ran  murmuring  down  a  stony 


THE    FOKEST.  119 

descent,  thickly  bordered  with  bushes  and  undergrowth. 
The  forest  opened  grandly  above,  with  mighty  tower 
ing  hemlocks,  hung  with  straggling  moss,  and  many  a 
star  shone  in  upon  the  grot,  and  was  reflected  in  the 
dark  basin.  The  platform  of  rock  around  the  basin 
was  encumbered  with  fragments  fallen  from  the  arch- 
The  lady  seated  herself  upon  one  of  these,  and  dipped 
up  the  ice-cold  water  in  the  palm  of  her  hand. 

"  I  drink  from  thy  cold  veins,  0  Mountain  !  "Would 
that  my  bosom  could  thereby  become  as  firm  as  thy 
rocky  heart ! " 

Whether  it  was  that  such  thoughts  absorbed  her 
or  not,  when  her  thirst  was  satisfied,  instead  of  going 
immediately  away,  she  continued  to  sit,  leaning  with 
one  open  hand  upon  the  same  stone,  and  gazing  at 
the  vexed,  foamy  spot  in  the  basin  where  the  water 
fell.  In  that  natural  attitude,  with  the  simple  antique 
flow  of  her  drapery  by  the  light  of  the  shadowy  cave, 
she  seemed  some  nymph  of  the  woody  and  fabulous 
Hellas,  bending  unseen  over  her  star-lit  fountain. 

How  often  it  happens  that  having  performed  some 
kind  or  generous  action,  in  a  lofty,  romantic  spirit,  we 
are  presently  after  assailed  with  involuntary  inward 
suggestions  in  regard  to  what  we  have  done,  which 
make  us  appear  to  ourselves  extremely  silly,  and  cause 
us  to  blush  at  the  exaltation  of  mind  which  we  pre- 


120  THE    FOREST. 

viously  experienced.  In  the  imaginative  fiction  of 
ZAUONI,  the  genius  of  Bulwer  has  given  a  terrible 
impersonation  of  this  appalling  visitant  of  generous 
souls,  in  the  spectral  shadow  which  he  there  represents 
as  haunting  the  threshold  of  the  Ideal.  But  in  the  true 
and  real  super-sensual  sphere  that  lies  about  and  en 
compasses  the  world  we  see,  the  phenomenon  is  justly 
attributed  to  a  real  whisperer  at  our  elbow,  a  living 
and  malignant,  though  invisible,  depreciator  of  our 
noble  actions ;  nor  is  it  this  demon's  office  merely  to 
represent  our  good  as  weakness,  but  with  malicious 
sagacity,  hoping  thereby  to  discourage  us  from  ever 
attempting  the  like  again,  to  point  out  the  real  faults 
which  have  mingled  in  the  good  itself,  through  the 
imperfection  of  human  nature.  It  might  have  been 
thus  with  our  beautiful  and  heroic  friend. 

"  Is  this  thy  pride  towards  one  who  has  once 
treated  thee  so  coldly?  —  who  now,  perchance,  is  de 
voted —  even  plighted  —  to  another?  Is  this  thy 
vowed  generosity  and  abnegation  in  her  favour  ?  With 
what  a  pang  would  she  have  seen  thy  silly  kindness  ? 
And  thou  hast  dreamed  of  the  austerest  life  which  is 
led  on  earth  by  the  spouses  of  Heaven !  Oh,  foolish 
virgin !  how  soon  is  thy  lamp  gone  out !  " 

We  have  noticed  the  coldness  of  this  fountain. 
No  doubt  it  was  supplied  from  some  frozen  reservoir 


THE    FOREST.  121 

—  some  glacier  adorning  a  cavern  with  its  blue  arch. 
"What  a  world  was  there,  unknown  save  to  the  chilliest 
reptiles !  The  worm,  the  newt,  and  the  toad,  knew  of 
it.  The  fountain  itself  was  inhabited  and  purified  by 
the  cold-blooded  frog,  darting,  with  a  miniature  resem 
blance  of  human  motion,  like  a  strong  swimmer, 
through  its  clear  depth,  and  hiding  his  green  limbs 
in  the  hollow,  fringed  with  hairy  roots  that  pierce  the 
earthy  margin.  But  the  hand  of  man  could  not  dip 
into  it  without  pain. 

Yet  now  the  maiden  bared  and  plunged  into  it 
her  tender  arm.  Down  it  went  out  of  sight  beneath 
the  black  surface  which  clipped  and  embraced  its 
rounded  whiteness.  That  was  surely  in  vain.  The 
coldness  of  a  mountain  source  could  not  chill  a  loving 
female  heart,  which  glowed  the  more  obstinately  be 
cause  its  warmth  was  so  pure. 

All  of  a  sudden  there  was  a  splashing  in  the  brook 
below,  and  a  rushing  among  the  bushes,  and  in  a  mo 
ment  a  number  of  huge,  black  forms  came  tumbling 
with  awkward  agility  upon  the  rocky  platform. 

Alban  was  dreaming  of  an  Arctic  expedition,  and 
thought  that  he  was  chasing  the  white  bear  over  the 
ice-fields  of  the  Pole.  Wrapt  in  skins,  he  felt  not  the 
keen  air ;  but  the  vast,  crystalline  plain  on  which  he 

moved  was  so  intensely  cold  that  he  could  not  bear 

6 


122  THE    FOREST. 

to  step  upon  it.  With  him  was  a  company  of  furry 
Esquimaux,  among  whom  he  distinguished  Morrell  and 
Courtney.  All  at  once,  their  joyful  gestures  announced 
the  discovery  of  a  geyser,  or  hot  volcanic  spring,  bub 
bling  up  under  the  everlasting  snows,  and  presently  he 
had  plunged  his  feet  in  the  glowing  ashes  that  covered, 
so  he  thought,  the  edge  of  the  crater,  when  a  familiar 
voice  behind  him  uttered  his  name  in  a  cry  of  warning. 

He  waked ;  that  cry  was  still  in  his  ear,  with  a 
sense  of  reality  which  no  dream  leaves  behind  it.  He 
sat  up  and  perceived  the  cloak  folded  about  his  feet. 
The  cry  was  heard  again ;  his  name  was  called  in  a 
well-known  voice.  He  sprang  up  and  rushed  towards 
the  fountain,  but  found  no  one. 

"  Mary !  "  he  cried. 

"I  have  somehow  got  below  the  fall,  and  there  are" 
—  a  slight  hysteric  laugh — "some  great  bears  upon 
the  rock,  so  that  I  can't  get  back." 

The  youth  darted  away.  Without  uttering  a  cry, 
(which  would  have  brought  upon  the  scene  three 
hunters  and  as  many  dogs,)  he  seized  a  blazing  knot 
of  pine  from  the  fire,  and  in  a  moment  rushed  upon  the 
rocky  platform  of  the  basin.  The  wild  creatures  scram 
bled  away  over  the  stones  of  the  stream.  But  one  of 
the  cubs,  too  young  to  be  frightened  by  the  light,  lay 
rolled  among  the  fragments  of  rock,  at  play  with  some- 


THE    FOREST.  123 

tiling  that  he  found  there,  and  the  huge  she-bear 
turned  threateningly  on  her  steps.  Yet  even  her  ma 
ternal  fury  was  quelled  by  the  terror  of  the  flame. 

Mary  had  somehow  escaped  to  the  opposite  side  of 
the  basin,  where  she  stood  half-concealed  by  the  silvery 
column  of  the  cascade. 

"Come  back  to  this  side,  and  get  away  as  fast  as 
you  can,  while  I  keep  this  creature  off, "  said  Atherton, 
advancing  boldly  into  the  stream. 

While  the  torch  whirled  through  the  air,  and  the 
fierce  animal  made  sudden  rushes  forward,  and  quick 
retreats,  rising  terribly  on  her  hind-feet  when  the  flame 
dashed  in  her  wild  eye,  the  maiden  advanced  hastily 
along  the  inner  ledge  of  the  rock  to  its  termination. 
The  basin  was  too  wide  to  leap  across,  and  the  depth 
on  the  opposite  side  forbade  wading.  The  intense 
light  that  filled  the  grot  showed  her,  as  she  paused, 
pale,  and  disordered  in  attitude  and  garments,  lifting 
with  the  snow-white  arm  the  simple  gray  robe,  meas 
uring  the  distance  before  her  with  a  bright,  resolute 
eye,  while  another  maid,  her  twin  and  inverted  image, 
gleamed  in  the  mirror  of  the  rocky  basin.  And  her 
graceful  shadow  was  thrown  against  the  cliff. 

It  was  but  a  moment ;  for  the  cub,  which  had  been 
playing  with  a  shoe  that  Mary  had  lost  in  her  flight, 
ended  by  pushing  it  into  the  water,  and,  as  if  startled 


THE    FOKEST. 

at  the  mischance,  ran  off,  tumbling  head-foremost  into 
the  bushes  to  seek  its  dam.  In  a  trice  all  the  black 
forms  had  disappeared. 

Atherton  turned  to  assist  his  fair  companion.  The 
steepness  of  the  rock,  and  density  of  the  bushes  on 
the  side  where  the  waters  discharged,  allowed  no  pas 
sage  except  for  the  rough-coated  bears,  and  least  of 
all  for  a  woman,  impeded  by  her  long  garments.  But 
mid- way  of  the  back  cliff,  and  just  above  the  water's 
edge,  Alban  discovered  a  cleft  where  he  could  rest 
his  foot.  Laying  down  the  torch  on  a  rock,  he 
spanned  the  distance  with  his  masculine  stride. 
"Now  for  something  that  you  can  step  upon." 
Among  the  rocks  lay  a  fragment  of  a  hemlock 
branch,  jagged  and  stiff.  He  brought  it  and  laid  it 
across  the  basin.  He  tried  it.  It  bore  his  weight. 
He  planted  one  foot  again  in  the  cleft  of  the  rock. 
The  maiden  took  his  hand,  and  stepped  tremblingly 
across  on  the  unsteady  branch. 

"You  have  lost  a  slipper  —  where  is  it?" 
"It  has  fallen  into  the  water." 
By  the  aid  of  the  torch  it  was  easily  discovered, 
and  kneeling,  he  recovered   it   quickly,   plunging  his 
arm  to  the  shoulder.     He  dried  the  soft  velvet  slipper 
with  care.     It  seemed  that   he   would   have  kissed  it 
as  he  laid  it  at  her  feet.     If  she   had   been  compas- 


THE    FOEEST.  125 

sionate  as  a  damsel  in  the  days  of  chivalry ;  and  in 
a  way  that  would  have  been  approved  in  the  nicest 
courts  of  love  and  gentleness,  he  was  as  brave  and 
devoted  as  any  knight.  Then  he  held  the  torch  on 
high,  as  if  to  guard  the  entrance  of  the  grot,  while 
the  maiden,  to  whom  the  shanty  fire  would  be  a 
sufficient  guide  in  returning  to  her  place,  fled  like 
a  bird  startled  from  shady  covert,  and  he  was  left 
alone  under  the  overhanging  and  dripping  cave. 

The  torch  still  illumined  the  wet  rocks,  the  hem 
lock  branch,  the  black  pool  and  silvery  fall,  but  the 
nymph-like  presence  that  lately  filled  the  grot  —  life, 
image,  and  graceful  shadow  —  was  gone,  and  he  hurled 
the  flaming  pine-knot  into  the  brook.  It  hissed  a 
moment,  and  all  was  blackness.  Alban  returned  to 
the  shanty,  where  all  was  now  quiet  as  the  grave 
again,  and  resumed  his  balsam  couch. 

So  passed  the  night  at  Cold  Spring  Lake  —  the 
night  of  their  first  encampment.  The  mountain  stood 
over  them,  truly,  like  an  ancient  wizard,  with  his 
head  among  the  stars.  The  waters  which  flowed  from 
his  cold  breast  were  as  if  enchanted.  The  forest  was 
conscious  of  a  magic  as  old  at  least  as  Eden. 


126  THE    FOEEST. 


CHAPTEE    IX. 


Guiding  a  wet  and  sodden  boat, 

With  thing  half  paddle,  half  an  oar, 
I  chanced  one  murky  eve  to  float 
Along  the  grim  and  ghastly  shore 
Of  such  wild  water. 

Vigil  of  Faith. 


THERE  ara  two  external  causes  which  of  themselves 
dispose  the  soul^to  live  for  the  present  in  the  manner 
of  the  Gentiles,  and  to  forget  the  stern  relations  which 
that  present  bears  to  an  immortal  future.  One  jsjthe 
splendour  and  activity  of  cities ;  the  other,  the  infinite 
luxuriance  of  nature  in  her  forest  solitudes.  On  the 
confines  of  that  vast  and  ancient  world,  dateless  and 
without  a  history,  which  the  untamed  wilderness  pre 
sents,  man  seems  to  belong  to  the  tribes  which  eat, 
drink,  and  enjoy  their  brief  sum  of  life,  in  every 
forest,  in  every  wild  stream  and  lake,  or  wherever 
the  sun  vivifies  the  moisture  of  the  untilled  earth, 
and  fills  the  very  atmosphere  with  the  motion  and 


THE    FOREST.  127 

the  glitter,  the  soothing  hum  and  ceaseless  enjoyment 
of  an  insect  universe. 

The  antiquity  of  the  mountains,  and  of  the  woods 
that  feed  on  their  maternal  bosoms,  as  on  the  myriad 
breasts  of  the  antique  Cybele,  annihilates  the  individ 
uality  of  him  who  passes  through  the  old  wilderness. 
How  long  have  these  streams,  too,  leaped  from  the 
cliffs  in  foam?  How  long  have  these  lakes  reflected 
the  stars,  or  weltered  under  the  bright  kiss  of  the 
ever-youthful  sun? 

The  Germans  have  a  popular  tradition  that  when 
the  Christian  Faith  overturned  the  old  worship  of  a 
formerly  heathen  country,  the  ancient  gods  fled  from 
the  genial  abodes  of  men  to  the  recesses  of  the  forest, 
or  hid  themselves  deep  in  the  heart  of  the  mountains, 
coming  forth  even  there,  only  in  the  hours  of  dew 
and  shadow ;  which  seems  to  symbolize  that  inveterate 
heathenism  of  lakes  and  woods,  of  mountain  and  cave, 
and  of  the  blue-vested  night,  with  her  mystic  gold- 
ernbroidery  of  constellations,  and  her  milky  star-girdle ! 
But  there  is  a  process  by  which  even  the  wildest 
scenes  imbibe  the  lineaments  of  faith,  and  become 
Christianized,  like  a  hamlet  by  its  rude  church,  or  a 
city  by  its  overshadowing  cathedral  towers,  hung  with 
sweet-toned  bells.  The  beautiful  Horicon  was  made 
a  font  by  the  early  Jesuit  missionaries;  the  converts 


128  THE    FOREST. 

of  the  Indian  tribes  were  baptized  in  its  transparent 
waters;  and  it  became  Lake  St.  Sacrament,  for  an 
eternal  memorial  that  there  the  Holy  Dove  has  dipped 
His  wings.  The  acts  of  sacred  penance  and  the  obla 
tion  of  pure  prayers  can  hallow  any  spot.  Even  the 
movements  of  our  travellers  tended  to  unheathenize 
the  wilderness  they  passed  through.  At  dawn,  at 
noon,  and  at  sunset,  Mary  De  Groot  and  Margaret 
never  failed  to  bow  their  heads  for  the  Angelus,  and 
as  they  did  so,  the  wild  American  forest  seemed  to 
be  impressed  with  the  moral  image  of  Southern  cities, 
where,  at  the  stroke  of  the  wide-sounding  bells,  the 
whole  population  pauses  in  its  business  and  its  gaiety, 
and  amid  universal  silence,  gives  one  moment  to  the 
adoration  of  the  Incarnate  Word. 

The  little  camp  was  early  in  motion.  To-day  their 
journey  was  to  be  prosecuted  in  the  boats,  and  they 
were  obliged  to  begin  by  retracing  the  last  steps  of 
the  night  before.  All  expressed  surprise  at  the  ease 
of  what  had  seemed  so  formidable  and  difficult.  Day 
light  and  descending  ground  made  such  a  difference. 
Jane  was  considerably  rested,  although  she  declared 
that  she  had  slept  badly  for  the  first  three  or  four 
hours,  after  which  she  had  fallen  into  a  sweet  morn 
ing  slumber.  Mary  was  fresh  as  a  lark,  and  eager  to 
set  forward ;  which  Jane  was  not,  from  excessive  fear 


THE    FOREST.  129 

of  the  difficulties  of  the  way.  However,  she  resigned 
herself  with  womanly  fortitude  to  what  was  inevitable. 
The  outlet  of  the  lake,  which  soon  presented  itself 
after  they  had  gained  the  boats,  was  narrow  and  wind 
ing,  filled  with  rocks,  and  abounding  in  rapids  and 
short  turns,  that  made  the  navigation  dangerous  and 
exciting.  The  scenery  through  which  they  passed 
was  varied.  Sometimes  they  pierced  a  frowning  depth 
of  low  and  seemingly  boundless  swamp ;  sometimes 
threaded  a  labyrinth  of  rocky  islets;  then  the  scene 
expanded,  and  precipitous  crags,  rising  over  woods  of 
vivid  foliage,  bordered  their  way  on  either  side.  The 
order  of  proceeding  was  slightly  diiferent  from  that 
of  the  evening  before.  It  was  suggested  by  Morrell 
that  as  the  outlets  were  not  of  easy  navigation,  it 
would  be  better  to  separate  the  females,  placing  one 
in  each  boat,  that  in  case  of  accident  there  might  not 
be  two  to  look  after  at  once;  a  piece  of  foresight 
which  threw  Jane  into  a  nervous  agitation  hardly  to 
be  quieted  even  by  her  cousin's  going  in  the  same 
boat  —  an  arrangement  on  which  Mary  De  Groot,  but 
not  without  some  embarrassment,  insisted.  Every 
rock  they  approached,  the  unhappy  Jane  expected 
the  canoe  to  strike  and  go  to  pieces,  and  when  occa 
sionally  they  came  apparently  near  being  upset  by 

grazing  one  sunken  beneath  the  surface,  in  some  of 

G* 


130  THE    FOKEST. 

the  short  turns  of  the  channel,  she  caught  her  cousin's 
arm  with  convulsive  force,  and  sank  on  his  shoulder 
when  the  danger  was  past,  trembling  like  a  leaf  of  the 
silver  poplar  that  quivered  on  the  edges  of  the  forest 
which  bordered  their  way.  She  declared,  with  a  pale 
ness  that  bespoke  her  sincerity,  that  it  was  infinitely 
worse  than  the  fatigues  of  the  day  before,  and  that 
she  would  rather  walk  or  ride  a  thousand  miles  than 
undergo  it  again.  Atherton,  indeed,  was  not  without 
apprehensions,  not  exactly  of  drowning,  although  with 
those  rapids  ready  to  sweep  them  out  of  reach  of  each 
other,  that  might  happen,  but  of  disabling  their  boat, 
which  would  prove  a  most  serious  obstacle  to  the 
prosecution  of  the  journey. 

The  cousins,  were  rowed  by  Morrell.  Miss  De 
Groot  was  in  advance  with  Pierre.  It  is  probable  that 
the  Indian  was  more  accustomed  to  threading  a  channel 
so  choked  with  hidden  as  well  as  visible  rocks ;  or  it 
might  be  the  native  dexterity  of  the  race ;  but  at  any 
rate,  his  canoe  glided  along  without  appearing  to  en 
counter  the  mishaps  that  befell  Morrell's. 

At  noon  they  arrived  at  a  portage,  where  all  were 
obliged  to  land,  and  the  guides  transported  the  boats 
round  a  considerable  fall.  Nothing  could  be  more 
wildly  beautiful,  although  for  the  females  difficult,  than 
the  walk  which  they  had  now  to  accomplish.  At  first 


THE    FOEEST.  131 

they  went  clambering  over  rocks ;  then  they  had  to 
pierce  a  vast  net-work  of  vines  ;  at  last  they  descended 
as  it  were  a  precipice,  where  the  ladies  required  all  the 
assistance  of  their  stronger  companions,  into  a  grove 
lying  in  the  hollow  embrace  of  a  huge,  rocky  amphi 
theatre,  like  the  Colosseum,  only  incomparably  more 
vast;  at  the  lower  extremity  of  which,  the  principal 
waterfall  poured  into  a  still  inferior  valley  in.  a  single 
sheet  of  green  and  white  waters,  that  buried  themselves 
in  a  cloud  of  spray,  spanned  at  that  hour  of  high  noon 
by  many  an  iris.  The  lofty  gray  crags  tottling  above 
against  the  sky,  the  crimson  splendour  of  the  autumn 
grove,  mixed  with  dark  evergreens,  the  sparkling, 
foaming,  thundering  waters,  with  their  brilliant  sun- 
bows,  made  a  scene  at  which  all  exclaimed  with  delight, 
and  even  Jane  acknowledged  herself  repaid  for  her 
fatigues  and  her  fears. 

As  the  guides  were  obliged  to  make  two  journeys 
in  Border  to  transport  the  boats  below  the  falls,  and 
afterwards  needed  to  rest,  nearly  two  hours  were  spent 
at  this  beautiful  spot.  On  a  bank  above,  commanding 
a  view  of  the  principal  fall,  and  of  the  chasm  where  the 
waters,  after  their  leap,  boiled  along  in  many  a  white 
fret  and  black  whirlpool,  the  travellers  took  their  mid 
day  repose  and  ate  their  mid-day  meal.  Courtney  had 
kindled  in  a  few  minutes  a  fire  of  dry  boughs,  which 


132  THE    FOKEST. 

diffused  a  warmth  ever  grateful  in  the  forest,  but  espe 
cially  so  near  a  cascade.  A  coverlet  was  spread  to  sit 
upon  ;  cloaks  and  carpet-bags  served  for  cushions.  A 
little  withdrawn,  but  near  enough  to  feel  the  glow  of 
the  fire,  some  poles  cut  from  saplings,  with  a  blanket 
of  Pierre's,  a  shawl,  and  a  coverlet,  formed,  by  Alban's 
care,  an  extempore  tent.  Biscuit  and  dried  venison, 
with  water  from  a  bubbling  spring,  constituted  the 
repast,  and  the  bank  where  they  reclined  contributed 
the  red  berries  of  the  aromatic  winter-green  in  great 
abundance  for  a  dessert.  For  the  last  of  the  partridges 
and  pigeons,  with  the  remainder  of  the  trout,  had  been 
consumed  in  the  morning.  There  was  a  general  feeling 
that  some  fresh  venison  would  be  acceptable. 

"  Since  we  shall  be  here  two  hours,  why  can't  we 
put  out  the  dogs  ?  "  Alban  asked. 

"I'm  afeard  it  might  detain  us,"  said  Morrell,  "or 
else  I  would.  I  'd  like  amazingly  to  kill  a  deer  in  the 
inlet,  or  maybe  in  the  lake,  for  we  are  pretty  near  it 
now." 

"  If  one  of  the  dogs  should  have  a  long  race,  it 
would  be  bad,  certainly.  I'm  afraid,  ladies,  that  we 
shall  be  obliged  to  sup  on  dried  meat  to-night." 

"  We  might  troll  for  lake  trout  as  soon  as  we  get 
out  of  the  inlet,"  said  Courtney. 

"We  might  do  that." 


THE    FOREST.  133 

"  The  outlet  has  got  to  be  the  inlet,  has  it  ?  "  said 
Miss  De  Groot.  "  That  is  encouraging,  Jane.  Is  the 
lake  we  are  coming  to  now,  a  long  one,  Mr.  Morrell  ?  " 

"  Four  or  five  miles,  ma'am." 

"And  then  we  shall  arrive  at  another  outlet,  I 
suppose,"  cried  Jane.  "Is  it  any  thing  like  this,  Mr. 
Morrell  ?  " 

Morrell  confessed  that  he  had  never  been  through 
it.  Courtney  said  it  was  pretty  bad  in  one  place,  at 
which  Jane  changed  countenance.  Miss  De  Groot  con 
soled  her  with  the  skill  of  the  guides,  and  the  certainty 
that  at  the  very  worst,  should  one  of  the  boats  capsize, 
or  be  stove  in,  they  would  but  get  a  wetting. 

"  But  Mr.  Morrell  acknowledges  that  he  has  never 
been  through  this  outlet,"  said  Jane.  "And  as  for  a 
wetting  —  I  beg  you  will  not  speak  of  it  —  the  very 
thought  terrifies  me.  If  I  get  into  the  water,  I  am  sure 
I  shall  drown,  and  perhaps  be  the  means  of  drowning 
Alban  too." 

"If  Mr.  Morrell's  not  being  acquainted  with  the 
passage  is  what  troubles  you,"  replied  Mary,  "you 
shall  change  boats  with  me.  Pierre  never  ran  upon  a 
rock  once  this  morning.  You  and  your  cousin  shall  go 
with  him  this  afternoon." 

"  No,  it  is  not  fair  that  you  should  always  be  ceding 
the  best  places  to  me." 


134  THE    FOREST. 

"  You  undertook  the  journey  on  my  account,"  re 
plied  Mary.  "  And  besides,  I  am  not  the  least  afraid 
to  trust  myself  to  Mr.  Morrell."  —  And  Morrell,  who 
was  just  preparing  to  return  for  his  boat,  made  her  a 
rude  bow. 

"  I  wish  I  had  half  your  courage,  Mary." 

"  Oh,  pray  don't !  I  think  you  a  great  deal  more 
charming  as  you  are  —  do  not  you,  Mr.  Alban  ?  " 

"  There  is  something  that  rather  flatters  us  in  a 
woman's  ingenuous  cowardice,"  replied  Atherton. 

"I  told  you  so.  It  is  sadly  unfeminine  to  be  so 
courageous,  and  so  self-dependent  —  as  I  am.  )  Be  con 
tented,  Jane." — And  Mary  laughed  somewhat  girlishly. 

"  I  must  try  to  pick  off  a  few  pigeons  for  supper," 
said  Alban,  rising. 

"  If  you  find  any  beautiful  leaves,  Alban,  you 
won't  forget  to  gather  them  and  bring  them  to  me  to 
press,"  said  Jane,  who  had  collected  a  vast  variety  of 
these  souvenirs,  from  every  place  in  the  course  of  their 
tour. 

"  Of  course." 

He  took  his  gun,  and  strolled  off.  Both  girls 
followed  him  at  first  with  their  eyes,  but  Miss  De 
Groot  soon  averted  hers,  and  directed  her  attention 
to  the  dashing  fall. 

How  it  plunged  on,  with  the  visible  identity  of  an 


THE    FOREST.  135 

individual  and  self-conscious  thing,  and  not  a  mere 
phenomenon ;  the  form  perpetual,  and  the  substance 
never  for  two  consecutive  instants  the  same !  Still 
plunging !  still  tossing  up  its  jets  of  foam,  its  sparkling 
breath  of  almost  viewless  spray,  that  covers  the  rocks 
and  woods  below  with  a  half-transparent  veil.  Is  there 
any  other  life  but  that  which  we  see  here  in  its  live 
liest  symbol  ?  Are  we,  too,  but  the  form  of  the  ever- 
flowing,  the  imperishable  and  eternal  substance,  as  it 
dashes  down  the  precipice  of  Being?  Or  is  there  a 
soul,  too,  in  the  cataract  ?  Is  it  a  nymph,  with  sunny 
locks  and  limbs  of  light  and  mist,  who  sits  upon  that 
glittering  sunbow  and  dominates  the  scene  ? 

They  are  mortals  who  gaze  upon  her  —  creatures 
of  flesh  and  blood.  But  strangely  mixed  with  that 
earthly  -TrXatfixa  is  a  spark  of  the  pure  intellectual 
light  —  a  ray,  not  from  the  sun,  but  from  the  sun's 
Creator.  The  life  which  that  Light  gives  shall  really 
never  die :  then  let  it  not,  even  here,  be  subject  to  the 
creatures  I  Sparkling  on  in  union  with  the  humblest 
elements,  let  it  still  assert  its  heavenly  origin.  But 
neither  must  the  present  lowliness  be  despised  or  ig 
nored,  for  it  is  full  of  uses  to  the  spirit  itself,  and 
therein  is  circumscribed  the  sphere  of  humanity,  with 
all  its  opportunities  for  patience,  for  pity,  and  for  love. 

"  The  water  is  never  tired  of  tumbling  there,"  said 


136  THE    FOREST. 

Jane,  observing  her  companion's  gaze  to  be  fixed  upon 
the  brilliant  cataract.  "  I  wish  I  could  be  as  unwearied 
after  clambering  over  these  rocks,  or  as  fresh  and  sweet, 
as  that  white  and  green  water,  instead  of  aching  with 
fatigue,  as  I  do  —  to  avoid  the  mention  of  other  discom 
forts.  What  do  you  think,  Mary?  Would  you  like 
to  be  a  waterfall?" 

"  No,"  answered  Mary,  adopting  the  light  and 
pleasant  tone  of  her  companion,  "  I  like  my  own 
human  nature  best,  with  all  its  infirmities." 

"  You  would  like  to  get  rid  of  the  infirmities, 
though,  if  you  could?" 

"  In  good  time,"  said  Mary,  looking  upward,  but 
still  smilingly.  "At  present,  I  would  rather  keep 
what  makes  me  like  my  kind." 

"But  if  you  wished  to  be  loved  in  a  romantic, 
imaginative  way  —  to  be  somebody's  ideal  —  those 
things  are  very  disenchanting,  don't  you  think?" 

Mary  blushed  like  the  sociable  angel  interrogated 
by  Adam — "celestial  rosy  red,  love's  proper  hue" — 
if  any  body  needs  us  to  quote  the  very  passage. 

"It  must  be  a  feeble  sentiment  to  be  so  disen 
chanted,"  said  she.  "For  my  part"  —  she  paused. 
c'0ur  Saviour,  you  know,  Jane,  was  subject  to  all  our 
sinless  infirmities;  He  was  tired,  and  suffered  His 
sacred  eyelids  to  be  weighed  down  with  sleep ;  in  His 


THE    FOKEST.  137 

long  journeys  He  was  often  covered  with  sweat  and 
dust,  no  doubt.  We  ought  to  be  glad  to  be  like 
Him  on  our  pilgrimage." 

"  Oh,  but  we  never  can,"  said  Jane. 
There  was   a  silence   for  some   time,   when  Jane, 
who  had  been   ruminating   on   what   Mary   said,   re 
sumed  the  conversation  from  a  nearer  point. 

"  I  wonder,"  said  she,  "  that  you  and  Alban,  sym 
pathizing  so  deeply  in  your  religious  views,  have 
never  formed  a  more  lively  personal  preference  for 
each  other." 

This  was  said  in  a  careless  tone,  but  the  speaker 
attentively  watched  the  effect  of  her  words.  However, 
it  was  so  natural  for  a  young  lady  to  blush  at  such 
a  remark  from  a  female  friend,  that  Miss  De  Groot's 
heightened  colour  and  forced  laugh  did  not  reveal 
much. 

"  Bodies  similarly  electrified  repel  each  other,  Jane. 
Your  cousin  and  I  think  too  much  alike,  perhaps,  —  to 
fall  in  love." 

"  But  you  did  not  always  think  alike  ?  " 

"We  have  always  talked  most  about  religion, 
though,  I  remember;  and  it  is  surely  repugnant  to 
Christian  delicacy  to  carry  on  a  flirtation  under  such  a 
guise.  These  are  things  that  must  be  kept  apart.  I 
have  heard,"  added  she,  gaily,  "  that  young  Protestant 


138  THE    FOREST. 

ministers  woo  their  wives  by  talking  theology :  —  it 
would  n't  be  the  way  to  win  me!" 

11  But  you  would  wish  to  marry  one  whose  religious 
views  coincided  with  your  own  ?  "  persisted  Jane. 

Mary  laughed. 

"  Of  course.  But  it  is  a  subject  that  I  try  to  think 
about  as  little  as  possible." 

"  One  can't  help  thinking  about  it  sometimes,"  said 
Jane. 

"If  one  hopes  to  be  married  —  at  least  some  day; 
and  especially  if  one  rather  connects  that  wish  with  any 
particular  person,"  replied  Mary  with  archness. 

"Do  you  mean  that  you  hope  for  no  such  thing?" 
Jane  asked,  with  spirit,  and  in  a  tone  of  raillery. 

"  In  truth,  I  have  no  hope  of  being  married,  and  no 
wish  for  it,"  said  Mary. 

"  Perhaps  you  wish  to  be  a  nun  ? "  said  Jane,  a 
new  light  breaking  upon  her,  and  speaking  with  a  mix 
ture  of  softness  and  curiosity. 

"  No !  "  said  Mary.  u  I  wish  to  follow  my  vocation, 
whatever  it  is,  and  whenever  it  shall  please  God  to 
make  it  known  to  me." 

"  And  pray,"  said  Jane,  "  how  do  you  expect  the 
will  of  Heaven  to  be  made  known  to  you  on  this 
point?" 

Miss  De  Groot  reflected  a  moment,  blushed,  smiled, 


THE    FOREST.  139 

looked  down,  and  replied  with  a  mixture  of  archness 
and  melancholy, 

"When  three  things  meet — my  father's  wishes,  the 
entreaties  of  a  constant  lover,  and  the  pleadings  of  my 
own  heart,  and  when  my  consent  will  neither  wrong 
nor  pain  any  one  else,  —  I  shall,  perhaps,  resign  my 
maiden  freedom ;— but  this  is  idle  talk." 

The  guides  returned,  bearing  the  last  of  the  boats. 
They  bore  it  down  the  rocks,  and  launched  it  below  the 
fall.  Atherton  came  in,  not  having  seen  a  solitary 
pigeon.  He  had  a  story  of  having  disturbed  some 
partridges,  but  could  not  get  a  shot  at  them.  Pierre 
was  discovered  on  the  rocks  below,  trying  to  fish.  On 
inquiry  it  was  found  that  he  had  been  unsuccessful, 
and  the  other  guides  pronounced  that  the  trout  were  on 
the  spawning  beds  about  the  mouth  of  the  inlet.  So 
the  traps  were  gathered  together,  and  the  party  re-em 
barked. 

When  the  new  arrangement,  by  which  the  ladies 
were  to  change  boats,  was  perceived,  Pierre  at  first 
refused  to  move.  It  seemed  that  he  considered  Miss 
De  Groot  as  under  his  special  care,  nor  would  he  trust 
her  to  any  one  else.  ISTo  one  before  had  presumed  to 
dispute  an  arrangement  which  Alban  had  made  or 
approved.  Our  hero's  pride,  or  his  instinct  of  authority, 
was  roused.  The  Indian  was  obstinate. 


140  THE    FOREST. 

"I  cannot  yield  to  this  foolish  fellow,"  said  Ather- 
ton,  turning  to  Miss  De  Groot,  "but  perhaps,  to  save 
us  a  quarrel,  you  will  change  your  mind." 

"  By  no  means,"  exclaimed  Mary,  who  was  already 
in  Morrell's  boat.  She  rose,  and  stood  in  the  stern,  and 
addressed  Pierre  in  French,  extending  one  hand  loftily 
towards  the  distant  lake.  "I  go,"  said  she,  "in  the 
boat  which  Monsieur  Atherton  has  approved,  and  with 
the  guide  whom  he  designates.  Shall  I  say  to  my 
father  that  you  have  abandoned  his  daughter?  What 
will  the  black-robes  tell  you  when  they  hear  it  ?  " 

At  this  appeal,  and  seeing  her  resolution  to  go  with 
Morrell,  the  Indian,  without  a  change  of  countenance, 
yielded  the  point,  and  they  got  under  way,  Pierre  still 
taking  the  lead.  The  afternoon  was  consumed  in  the 
passage  of  a  long,  many-islanded  lake.  On  one  of  the 
islands  they- saw  several  bears  —  near  relatives,  doubt 
less,  of  our  friends  of  the  grotto.  Courtney  was  eager 
to  land  and  have  a  fight  for  them  in  the  presence  of 
the  ladies,  extolling  the  fat  and  tender  meat  of  the 
young  ones ;  but  the  more  prudent  Morrell  withstood 
the  proposition,  out  of  regard  to  the  safety  of  his  dog. 
Courtney  replied  that  he  would  risk  his.  The  young 
man's  eye  flashed  with  excitement,  which  communi 
cated  itself  to  Atherton,  who  also  longed  to  shoot  a 
bear,  if  only  to  pay  a  debt  he  owed  the  race.  Morrell 


THE    FOREST.  141 

readily  submitted  to  Mr.  Atherton,  and  all  were  pre 
paring  to  go  ashore,  when  a  look  of  Mary's  reminded 
our  hero  that  all  needless  delay  must  give  her  pain: 
—  for  she  hoped  that  evening  to  reach  the  nearest 
cabin  of  Pierre's  tribe,  and  hear  news  of  her  father. 
Athough  she  said  nothing,  therefore,  Alban  under 
stood  her  anxiety  to  get  on,  and  he  said,  —  "No  —  we 
shall  lose  time  —  on,  on  !  "  to  Courtney's  great  disap 
pointment. 

This  turned  out  for  the  best ;  for  passing  beyond 
the  islet,  the  first  thing  they  saw  was  a  deer  in  the 
open  lake.  Mary  De  Groot  was  the  first  to  see  it, 
Morrell  having  got  the  lead  at  the  Bear  island. 

Then  there  was  a  chase.  The  ladies  were  extremely 
excited.  The  most  refined  natures  possess  a  share  of 
those  instincts  which  class  man  among  beasts  of  prey, 
and  besides  this  natural  venatory  propensity,  all  were 
stimulated  by  the  desire  of  obtaining  that  food  for 
which  the  open  air  develops  an  immense  craving. 
The  relentings  of  female  pity  only  gave  a  sort  of  zest 
to  these  stern  impulses  of  pursuit.  So  far  advanced 
was  the  deer  —  a  buck  of  ten  tynes  —  that  it  was  by 
the  greatest  exertions  alone  that  Morrell  succeeded  in 
heading  him  off,  although  the  light  form  of  Miss  De 
Groot  constituted  the  entire  load  of  his  birchen  canoe. 
The  hounds,  which  were  with  Courtney,  kept  up  a 


142  THE    FOKEST. 

constant  cry,  in  spite  of  all  the  latter  could  do  to  quiet 
them. 

"  Now,"  cried  Morrell,  when  the  deer  turned  and 
showed  the  back  of  his  head  in  the  long  direction  of 
the  lake,  "  we  have  him.  But  you  must  kill  him,  Miss 
De  Groot.  He  belongs  fairly  to  you." 

"  Oh,  not  for  the  world  !  "  answered  Mary.  "  Let 
Mr.  Atherton  shoot  him." 

Alban,  who  was  coming  up  fast,  did  not  pass  any 
compliments  on  the  matter.  Only,  for  fear  of  the 
buckshot  scattering,  he  took  Pierre's  rifle  instead  of  his 
own  gun.  Mary  De  Groot,  closely  pursuing,  saw  the 
branching  horns  sink  like  lead  before  her,  even  before 
the  sharp  report  of  the  rifle  reached  her  ear  over  the 
water.  The  echoes  were  yet  answering  from  the  hills, 
when  Morrell  caught  one  of  the  horns,  and  plunged 
the  knife  into  the  unresisting  throat. 

"  The  beautiful  eye  !  "  cried  Mary. 

"  This  is  your  deer,  Miss  De  Groot,"  said  Alban, 
coming  up. 

"It  is  Jane's  and  mine.  I  saw  him  first,  and 
headed  him  off,  as  Mr.  Morrell  says ;  and  by  the  same 
reasoning,  Jane,  you  shot  him." 

Both  the  guides  praised  Alban's  shot  to  the  skies. 
Even  Pierre  ejaculated  a  note  of  commendation.  The 
ball  had  hit  exactly  in  the  right  spot  in  the  ear,  and 


THE    FOREST.  143 

had  perforated  the  brain.  The  deer  was  got  into 
Morrell's  boat  by  the  united  exertions  of  Morrell  and 
Courtney,  and  the  dog  of  the  former  whimpered  so 
for  his  master  that  at  Miss  De  Groot's  request  he  took 
him  in.  Pierre  meanwhile  took  the  lead  again. 

- "  Was  it  really  a  very  fine  shot  of  Mr.  Atherton's  ?  " 
asked  Mary  De  Groot,  as  Morrell  cheerfully  pulled  on. 

"  Beautiful,  ma'am.  Nothing  could  have  bettered 
it." 

Mary  could  not  restrain  her  exultation.  She  crim 
soned  to  the  temples,  because  Alban  had  killed  a  buck 
with  a  rifle-shot. 

"I  am  proud  of  him  !  "  she  exclaimed.  "  Don't 
you  think,  Mr.  Morrell,  that  he  is  a  noble  fellow  ?  " 

Morrell  assented  of  course ;  both  in  deference  to 
the  lady's  praise,  and  because  Alban  was  really  a 
favourite  with  the  guides. 

Nothing  further  occurred  worthy  of  notice  during 
the  afternoon.  The  outlet  of  this  lake  did  not  prove 
upon  the  whole  nearly  so  difficult  of  navigation  as 
that  of  the  other;  the  "one  bad  place"  —  a  reach  of 
about  half  a  mile  —  was  passed  by  Pierre  without 
alarming  Jane  more  than  once  or  twice.  Morrell 
indeed  ran  several  times  upon  a  hidden  rock  in  a 
rather  perilous  way,  especially  considering  the  load 
he  had ;  and  there  was  one  spot  where  the  men  had 


144  THE    FOREST. 

all  to  get  out,  and  drag  the  boats  over  some  shallows 
of  gravel.  Towards  sunset,  they  came  out  into  a  lake 
which  surpassed  in  majesty  all  the  preceding.  A  blue, 
sky-piercing  summit,  centrally  rising  from  a  ring  of 
beautiful  hills  and  wooded  promontories,  overlooked  a 
broad,  irregular  sheet,  nearly  fifteen  miles  across,  dotted 
with  islands  of  rock  and  mighty  timber.  The  wind, 
which  had  been  singing  in  the  forest-tops  for  an  hour 
or  more,  was  blowing  freshly  on  the  lake ;  and  over 
the  western  shore  hung  a  dark,  blue  mass  of  threat 
ening  clouds,  with  a  line  of  saffron-coloured  rain  be 
tween  their  edges  and  the  horizon.  Lightning  gleamed 
on  the  front  of  the  clouds. 

Still  they  were  bound  to  proceed.  No  suitable 
shelter  could  be  found  without  crossing  the  lake.  The 
waves  smote  their  frail  boats,  as  they  toiled  on ;  the 
sky  soon  became  black ;  the  lightning  vivid.  About 
the  middle  of  the  passage,  it  began  to  rain  in  torrents. 
They  were  in  more  real  jeopardy  than  in  all  their 
voyage  hitherto.  Morrell's  boat,  from  the  severe  con 
cussions  it  had  received  in  the  inlets,  took  in  water 
freely.  Miss  De  Groot  got  the  rusty  tin  cup  kept  for 
that  purpose,  and  baled.  Morrell  wished  to  throw  the 
deer  over,  as  its  weight  sank  the  boat  considerably, 
and  produced  half  the  leakage;  but  she  would  not 
hear  of  it.  Alban  was  constantly  looking  back  at 


THE    FOREST.  145 

them,  in  great  distress;  he  was  but  baling  occasion 
ally.  He  shouted  several  times  to  Morrell  to  throw 
over  the  deer,  which  Mary  answered  by  waving  her 
tin  cup.  It  was  too  rough  to  effect  an  exchange  with 
a  lady  from  one  boat  to  another,  or  he  would  have 
made  her  take  his  place  in  Pierre's  canoe.  Jane  being 
enveloped  in  a  water-proof  cloak,  lent  by  St.  Clair, 
was  secure  against  the  rain,  but  Miss  De  Groot  was 
soon  wet  through  all  her  garments. 

"Do  you  think  the  boat  is  likely  to  go  to  pieces 
from  these  waves  striking  it  so  hard,  Mr.  Morrell?" 
said  Mary  in  a  sweet  tone,  still  baling. 

"  Well,  I  guess  it  will  stand  it,  maybe.  I  should  n't 
be  much  afraid,  if  it  wasn't  for  that  last  thump  in 
the  inlet.  I  guess  that  racked  the  old  shell  consid 
erable." 

"And  do  you  think  the  wreck  would  sink  or-  float, 
Mr.  Morrell?" 

"  Well,  I  guess  it  would  float." 

"My  clothes  are  so  completely  soaked  that  they 
would  not  buoy  me  up  long,  I  fear,"  said  Mary.— 
There  was  a  fearful  creak  as  the  boat  fell  against  a 
sea. —  "It  is  not  going  to  break,  is  it?" 

"  No,  not  yet,  I  guess.  But  I  really  think  we  shall 
have  to  heave  that  buck  overboard.  You  see  the 
water  comes  in  fast  since  that  last  poke." 

7 


146  THE    FOKEST. 

"You  must  consult  your  own  judgment,  Mr.  Mor- 

rell." 

Morrell  left  the  paddle,  and  with  a  mighty  effort 
heaved  the  body  of  the  deer  over  the  side,  but  nearly 
capsized  the  boat  in  doing  so.  The  waves  caught  it 
on  the  side,  and  broke  over  it  as  it  righted.  It  was 
half  full  in  a  twinkling. 

"  Bale,  bale,  Miss !  as  fast  as  ever  you  can,  while 
I  keep  her  to  the  sea.  0  my  good  Lord,  if  I  had 
only  another  pair  of  hands." 

Mary  baled  with  both  hands,  she  pulled  off  her 
sun-bonnet  and  baled  with  that ;  it  took  up  four  times 
as  much  water  as  the  cup,  still  the  quantity  did  not 
sensibly  diminish. 

"There  is  a  place  in  the  side  just  under  your 
right  knee,  Mr.  Morrell  —  no,  lower  down  —  where  a 
great  deal  of  water  comes  in.  I  observed  it  before, 
and  now  I  see  a  little  eddying.  If  you  could  only 
stuff  my  handkerchief  in." 

Morrell  contrived  to  do  so,  working  with  one  hand 
at  the  same  time.  The  water  now  diminished  rapidly 
under  the  baling. 

"  You  are  almost  exhausted,  Miss." 
"  But  not  quite.     I  am  gaining  on  the  water  fast." 
"  Eest  a  few  minutes,  while  I  try  if  I  can't  lift  this 
boat  out  of  the  water." 


THE    FOREST.  147 

Morrell  threw  all  his  force  upon  the  broad  paddle. 
The  boat  seemed  really  to  fly.  They  gained  upon 
Pierre.  Courtney  fell  astern.  Mary  set  to  baling  again 
with  the  cup.  Pierre  called  out  to  them  several  times, 
and  the  minute  after  the  boat  struck,  not  a  wave,  but 
a  rock.  The  bottom  was  stove  in;  the  fragile  shell 
of  bark  was  in  pieces  in  twenty  seconds.  A  shriek 
was  heard  from  Pierre's  boat,  and  another  from 
Courtney's. 

"Put  back,  Pierre.  Be  quick  as  lightning." 
Alban  did  not  leap  in,  he  did  not  even  rise;  he 
sat  still,  white  as  a  sheet,  but  trimming  the  canoe 
carefully,  and  keeping  his  eye  on  Mary's  form.  She 
and  Morrell  were  only  a  few  yards  apart,  but  the 
latter  had  either  been  stunned,  or  had  lost  his  presence 
of  mind.  Morrell's  dog  held  Miss  De  Groot's  dress 
between  his  teeth.  Jane  cried  and  wrung  her  hands. 
As  the  canoe  came  alongside,  Alban  perceived  that 
Mary  was  insensible ;  her  head  and  face  were  quite 
under  water ;  her  long  hair  had  got  loose  and  floated 
upon  it.  A  wave  dashed  her  into  his  arms,  and  he 
drew  her  into  the  boat.  Morrell  seized  hold  of  the 
side,  and  so  kept  himself  above  water,  till  Courtney 
came  up  and  took  him  in.  It  was  nearly  dark  when 
this  happened. 


148  THE    FOKEST. 


CHAPTEK    X. 

The  friendly  outlaw,  now  taking  rne  by  the  arm,  conducted  me  into  the 
interior  of  the  hut.  My  eyes  roved  round  its  smoky  recesses  in  quest  of 
Diana  and  her  companion. 

ATHERTON  wished  to  go  ashore  at  the  nearest  point, 
that  they  might  build  a  fire,  and  employ  without 
delay  all  the  means  they  possessed  for  the  resuscita 
tion  of  their  friend.  But  Pierre  shook  his  head,  and 
kept  on  up  the  middle  of  the  lake.  Mary  might  have 
been  two  or  three  minutes  (certainly  not  more)  under 
water.  A  timid,  hysterical  girl,  who  would  faint  im 
mediately  from  terror,  might  be  submerged  for  half 
an  hour  with  less  danger,  than  one  so  healthy  and 
courageous  for  two  minutes.  The  continuance  of  the 
full  action  of  the  heart,  in  the  latter  case,  pumps 
carbonized  blood  out  of  the  lungs,  and  all  is  over. 

At  first,  Miss  De  Groot  lay  in  the  bottom  of  the 
canoe,  exposed  to  the  torrents  of  rain,  the  water 
swashing  back  and  forth  around  her  at  every  lift  of 


THE    FOKEST.  149 

the  boat  by  a  wave.  Alban  baled  out  the  water  as 
well  as  he  could  in  the  crowded  state  of  the  canoe, 
and  Jane  eagerly  offered  the  water-proof  cloak  in 
which  she  had  hitherto  been  protected  from  the  wet, 
to  envelop  the  person  of  her  friend.  With  some 
difficulty  he  succeeded  in  wrapping  her  in  it,  and 
taking  the  insensible  form  in  his  arms,  placed  himself 
in  the  bottom  of  the  boat.  Her  feet  being  still 
imperfectly  protected,  he  took  off  his  own  shag,  which 
shed  the  rain,  and  covered  them.  This  was  all  that 
could  be  done  for  the  present.  Thus  they  pulled 
on,  till  it  became  so  dark  that  they  could  no  longer 
distinguish  each  other's  faces,  and  Courtney,  though 
following  close  behind,  had  to  be  guided  by  an  occa 
sional  hoarse  cry  from  the  Indian.  Every  few  minutes, 
Morrell  called  out  to  know  on  the  part  of  Margaret 
how  her  mistress  was,  till  Atherton  enjoined  silence. 
Notwithstanding  the  darkness,  the  rain,  the  waves, 
the  occasional  bursts  of  sheeted  lightning  which  re 
vealed  a  widely  threatening  scene,  and  the  terror 
which  the  accident  that  already  had  befallen  was  cal 
culated  to  infuse,  Jane,  though  trembling,  suppressed 
her  fears,  and  uttered  not  a  word  unless  of  tender 
anxiety  for  Mary's  recovery.  Despite  a  deep  con 
fidence  which  he  felt  that  she  would  be  saved, 
Alban's  heart  was  a  prey  to  the  most  devouring  im- 


150  THE    FOREST. 

patience   to   reach   land,   where   they   might   at  least 
ascertain  the  truth. 

As  soon  as  all  fresh  moisture  was  excluded,  be 
sides  that  with  which  her  garments  were  already 
saturated,  the  warmth  which  Mary  had  never  lost 
began  to  increase.  In  the  perfect  darkness,  the  first 
signs  of  returning  animation  could  not  be  perceived. 
She  was  already  conscious  before  Alban  was  aware 
that  she  breathed.  A  faint  struggle  to  free  herself 
from  his  arms  was  the  first  thing  that,  gave  him  the 
joyful  assurance  of  her  life. 

"She  moves!" 

"Thank  God!"  cried  Jane,  with  a  singular  burst. 
"That  is  all  I  care  for  in  the  world!" 

"Jane!"  said  Miss  De  Groot,  in  a  voice  so  low 
that  only  Alban  heard  it. 

"She  speaks  to  you,  Jane." 

"Mary — dearest!"  Jane  stooped  down,  found 
her  friend's  face,  and  kissed  her  tenderly.  "Keep 
quiet,  dearest ;  Alban  is  holding'  you,  all  safely  wrapt 
in  the  oil-skin  cloak.  We  shall  soon  get  ashore." 

In  effect,  they  touched  the  long-desired  shore  a 
few  minutes  after  this,  and  Pierre  leaped  out  and 
drew  up  the  canoe. 

"Shanty,  Pierre?"  demanded  Atherton,  in  the 
laconic  English  which  the  Indian  best  understood. 


THE    FOREST.  151 

"  Good  shanty  —  very  good  ! " 

"Good  path?" 

"  Good !  —  very  good ! " 

"  I  can  walk,"  Mary  remonstrated,  as  Alban  lifted 
her  in  his  arms. 

"  And  I  can  carry  you.  Why,  you  are  light 
as  an  infant." 

Pierre,  with  unwonted  attention  to  a  squaw,  helped 
Jane  along.  There  was  a  narrow  sand-beach,  then 
an  ascending  path,  soft  as  the  furrow  of  a  ploughed 
field.  When  they  reached  the  top  of  the  bank,  they 
saw  before  them,  at  some  distance,  the  low  black  out 
line  of  a  hut  defined  against  a  blazing  fire.  Mean 
while  Courtney  had  come  up,  and  the  whole  party 
reached  the  hut  nearly  at  the  same  moment.  The 
Indian  pushed  open  a  door  in  the  side,  discovering 
an  interior  lighted  by  the  fire.  Stooping  under, 
Atherton  entered  with  his  silent  burden. 

It  was  a  log  cabin,  with  one  open  gable,  opposite 
which  the  fire  was  piled  against  a  rude  chimney-back 
of  stone,  designed  to  aid  in  carrying  off  the  smoke. 
The  floor  was  of  hard  earth,  spread  along  the  walls 
with  boughs  and  skins.  Near  the  fire  sat  two  persons 
—  a  man  and  woman  —  both  of  whom  sprang  to  their 
feet  on  seeing  the  visitors,  and  the  latter,  observing 
what  Alban  had  in  his  arms,  pointed  to  a  low  couch 


152  THE    FOEEST. 

of  skins,  where  lie  deposited  Mary  de  Groot.  Court 
ney,  Morrell,  and  Margaret  entered,  the  two  men  bear 
ing  the  luggage,  and  the  cabin  was  full  of  persons. 

The  male  occupant  of  the  hut  and  the  guides 
exchanged  mutual  recognitions. 

"  You  can  give  us  a  lodging  to-night,  Duncan,  and 
something  to  eat,  I  reckon?" 

"  Why,  Morrell,  we  '11  do  what  we  can.  But  what 
youth  is  this  coming  to  this  part  of  the  world  with 
three  gals?  Squaws  are  of  precious  little  use  here, 
I  can  tell  you,  though  I  Ve  got  one  to  sit  by  my 
shanty  fire — but  Dorothy  is  pretty  near  as  strong 
to  work  as  I  am." 

The  owner  of  the  cabin  was  a  man  past  thirty, 
above  the  middle  height,  with  a  sallow  complexion, 
thin,  aquiline  features,  and  a  piercing  but  stealthy 
eye.  He  was  clad  in  the  garb  of  hunters,  as  it  is 
seen  in  the  remoter  forest  —  a  shirt  and  leggins  of 
tawny  buckskin,  and  a  large  cap  of  gray  marten. 
His  female  companion  might  have  been  ten  years 
younger.  Her  sun-burnt  features,  small,  half-shut, 
light-blue  eye,  and  flaxen  hair,  intimated  that  she  had 
been  raised  on  a  clearing.  Her  garb  was  simplicity 
itself,  consisting  of  a  coarse  white  cotton  chemise,  and 
a  single  petticoat  of  blue  cloth;  her  feet  as  well  as  arms 
being  bare,  and  dark  from  exposure.  This  simple  cos- 


THE    FOREST.  153 

tume  set  off  a  form  of  that  vigorous  symmetry  which 
is  only  seen  where  Nature  has  been  developed  by 
constant  exercise,  and  never  subjected  to  restraint ; 
and  her  quick  movements  were  of  a  corresponding 
gracefulness.  She  was  very  much  astonished  to  see 
so  many  females,  and  offered  them  assistance  with  a 
readiness  that  savoured  as  much  of  curiosity  as  good 
will. 

Atherton,  however,  now  advanced  to  the  men,  who 
were  standing  and  conversing  near  the  fire,  and  pro 
posed,  with  a  courteous  air,  that  the  shanty  should  be 
abandoned  for  a  short  time  to  the  ladies. 

"  And  where  are  we  to  go  ?  "  demanded  the  owner 
of  the  hut.  "  The  nearest  tree  is  a  hundred  yards,  and 
you'll  find  it  wet  enough  under  the  pines  to-night,  I — 
guess.  If  your  women-folks  wants  to  change  their 
clo'es,  they  're  welcome  to  tuther  end  of  the  shanty,  I 
spose.  Nobody  here  '11  take  the  trouble  to  look  to  see 
what  they  're  doin',  I  guess." 

This  "back-turning"  is  indeed  the  established  eti 
quette  of  log-cabins  of  a  single  room,  on  the  rough 
frontier.  Atherton  was  not  unacquainted  with  the  cus 
tom,  but  the  proposal  to  adopt  it  now  seemed  to  him 
an  outrageous  disrespect ;  and  an  indefinable  insult 
in  the  tone  of  the  trapper  stirred  his  blood. 

"  Look  here,  Mr.  Duncan !  "    rejoined  he,  sternly. 
7* 


154  THE    FOREST. 

"I  will  pay  you  to-morrow  what  you  like  for  the 
accommodation,  but  to-night  I  expect  to  be  master 
here.  These  ladies  are  not  used  to  undress  in  the 
presence  of  men,  whether  their  backs  are  turned  or 
not,  nor  do  I  mean  that  they  shall  begin  now.  So 
come  out  of  the  shanty  with  us  at  once." 

At  this  the  trapper  stept  back,  and  took  down  his 
rifle  from  a  pair  of  buck-horns  across  which  it  was 
suspended.  His  wife  screamed.  Courtney,  who  had 
also  looked  very  fierce  during  Alban's  speech,  seized 
his  gun.  Pierre  rose  stealthily  to  his  feet  from  the 
position  he  had  already  taken  near  the  fire. 

"  Come,  Duncan,  don't  be  a  fool,  man ! "  said  Mor- 
rell  with  an  uneasy  look.  "You'll  be  well  paid  if 
you  're  obliging  ;  otherwise  you  '11  get  nothing  at  all." 

Whether  influenced  by  the  consideration  urged  by 
Morrell,  or  seeing  from  the  fierce  and  resolute  looks 
of  the  others,  that  the  young  man  would  be  seconded 
by  his  followers,  the  squatter  hung  up  his  rifle  again 
with  a  sullen  laugh.  Alban  haughtily  pointed  to  the 
door,  and  all  went  out.  It  was  really  asking  a  good 
deal  of  a  man,  to  make  him  turn  out  of  his  own  dry 
house  on  such  a  night,  and  stand  under  a  flooding  sky. 
To  this  effect  Duncan  was  grumbling,  and  added  some' 
thing  in  regard  to  the  object  of  their  expulsion,  which 
again  so  nearly  approached  disrespect  to  the  ladies, 


THE    FOEEST.  155 

that  Atherton  was  strongly  tempted  to  knock  him 
down.  He  offered  the  trapper  the  oil-skin  cloak. 

"  Do  me  the  favour  to  put  it  on.  It  will  keep  you 
dry.  Nay,  I  insist  upon  it.  I  am  already  wet  to  the 
skin,  and  to  me  it  is  useless." 

"  I  don't  mind  the  rain,"  said  Duncan.  "  I  did  n't 
like  to  be  turned  out  of  my  own  shanty,  without  so 
much  as  by  your  leave,  though." 

"  It  made  you  feel  spunky,"  replied  Atherton,  good- 
naturedly.  "  Well,  that  was  excusable.  Morrell,  do 
you  take  the  cloak.  You  have  been  in  the  lake." 

"  We  are  used  to  being  wet,  Mr.  Atherton,"  said 
Morrell,  "  and  I  never  did  ketch  cold  but  once.  I  was 
out  in  the  winter  hunting  moose.  Hart  had  offered 
me  a  good  sum  for  some  moose-meat  to  dry  for  a  gen 
tleman  on  the  North  Kiver,  with  the  same  name  as 
your  young  lady  in  there,  Mr.  Atherton,  who  has  come 
so  near  being  drowned  this  afternoon.  Well,  I  killed 
a  beautiful  moose  calf  in  the  woods  north  of  Louis, 
maybe  fifteen  mile.  I  dressed  it  on  the  spot,  and  set 
out  to  carry  in  the  creature's  meat  on  my  back,  pelt 
and  all.  The  meat  was  only  the  saddle,  you  know, 
but  I  reckon  it  weighed  altogether  near  two  hundred 
pound." 

"  By  George !  "  said  Courtney.     "  That  was  a  lift." 

"  Well,  there  was  about  a  foot  and  a  half  of  snow 


156  THE    FOKEST. 

on  the  ground,  and  it  was  an  everlasting  cold  night. 
But  I  sweat  so  with  that  load  of  moose-meat  and 
the  skin,  that  I  could  n't  have  been  wetter  in  a  July 
rain ;  and  every  two  or  three  miles,  I  got  so  hot  and 
so  tired  that  I  was  obliged  to  lay  right  down  in  the 
snow  and  cool  off.  "Well,  I  guess  I  did  ketch  a  cold 
that  time  —  a  regular  pleurisy  that  laid  me  flat  for 
one  while." 

"  I  believe  it,"  said  Alban,  laughing. 

"  I  heard  that  you  killed  a  mighty  big  buck  the 
other  day  at  Louis,  Morrell  ? "  said  Duncan  in  an 
inquiring  tone. 

The  trappers  did  not  seem  to  mind  the  rain  at  all, 
now  they  were  out  in  it. 

"  How  did  you  hear  of  that  ?  It  was  a  big  buck, 
sure  enough.  This  gentleman's  cousin  killed  it." 

"  I  saw  Enoch  Duncan  at  the  Sumac  Swamp,  and 
he  told  me  about  it.  I  wonder  if  it  was  bigger  than 
the  one  I  killed  the  other  day  with  the  Patroon.  That 
was  the  biggest  buck  almost,  I  ever  saw." 

"  How  much  did  the  meat  weigh  ? "  demanded 
Morrell. 

"Why,  I  don't  rightly  know,  but  I  should  judge 
there  could  n't  have  been  less  than  two  hundred  pounds 
of  it,"  replied  Duncan. 

"  The  meat  of  the  buck  we  killed  at  Louis,  would 


THE    FOREST.  157 

have  gone  over  three  hundred  pound,"  said  Morrell, 
who  was  not  to  be  out-bragged. 

"  You  don't  say !  "Well,  that  must  have  been  a 
bigger  deer  than  mine.  Enoch  said  the  horns  of 
your'n  were  very  large.  The  horns  of  the  Patroon's 
buck  was  the  biggest  I  ever  see,  and  I  kill  my  fifty 
deer  pretty  reg'lar  every  winter." 

"  Well,  how  big  were  your  horns  ?  "  said  Morrell, 
cautiously.  "  Were  they  as  big  as  them  largest  horns 
that  Hart  has  got  in  his  bar-room  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  replied  Duncan,  "  I  should  say  they  were 
bigger  than  those." 

"  The  horns  of  the  buck  we  killed  at  Louis,"  said 
Morrell,  "  were  as  big  as  any  two  pair  of  Hart's.  Why, 
there  was  fifteen  prongs !  They  were  more  like  moose- 
horns  than  deer-horns." 

"  Like  elk-horns,  you  mean,"  said  Alban,  laughing. 

This  knocked  up  Duncan ;  he  gave  in  that  he  had 
never  seen  such  a  deer. 

"He  swum  very  near  as  fast  as  I  could  row  a 
boat,"  said  Courtney;  "and  after  there  was  seven 
gun-barrels  into  him,  it  seemed  to  make  no  difference. 
He  showed  fight  till  Mr.  Henry  Atherton  put  six 
buckshot  in  the  back  of  his  head." 

"Mr.  De  Groot  killed  his  big  buck  with  the  first 
shot  of  his  rifle,"  said  Duncan. 


158  THE    FOREST. 

"Why,  that  must  be  your  young  lady's  father, 
Mr.  Atherton,"  said  Morrell. 

"  Of  course,"  said  Alban  quietly. 

"  Is  one  of  the  ladies  inside  the  Patroon's  daugh 
ter?"  asked  Duncan.  "If  I  had  known  that,  you 
should  n't  have  asked  twice  for  the  shanty,  sir.  They 
shall  have  it  to  themselves  all  night,  and  welcome." 

It  was  marvellous  the  difference  this  information 
made.  The  churlishness  of  Duncan  vanished  in  a 
moment.  When  the  shanty  door  was  opened  by  Mar 
garet,  all  but  himself  went  in,  and  he  soon  appeared 
with  some  fresh  trout  and  venison  steaks.  On  one 
side  of  the  cheerfully  illumined  and  warm  interior, 
Alban  saw,  as  he  entered,  a  bright  vision. 

The  bear-skin  couch  had  been  laid  with  their  own 
coverlets,  which  an  oil-skin  had  protected  from  the  wet, 
and  here  were  seated  Mary  De  Groot  and  Jane,  both 
in  white.  Their  robes  were  fashioned  alike,  neatly 
fitting,  but  zoneless ;  and  mingling  sister-like  together, 
spread  over  the  couch.  So  much  grace  and  purity 
had  certainly  never  before  visited  the  smoky  old  hut. 
The  scene  that  followed  was  rather  pretty.  Atherton 
dropped  on  one  knee  to  take  Miss  De  Groot's  hand, 
which  he  kissed.  She  was  pale  enough,  and  leaned 
on  Jane,  who  supported  her  with  an  arm.  The  relation 
which  existed  between  these  maidens  and  their  young 


THE    FOREST.  159 

protector  could  scarcely  have  occurred  in  any  country 
but  one  where  females,  as  such,  were  guarded  by  a 
general  feeling  of  chivalrous  respect.  The  manly  quali 
ties  which  Atherton  had  recently  displayed  in  the 
defence  and  assistance  of  his  fair  companions,  took 
away  all  appearance  of  impertinence  from  his  unusual 
salutation.  He  inquired  with  the  deepest  respect  how 
Miss  De^  Groot  found  herself,  and  with  tenderness  if 
Jane  felt  no  ill  effects  from  her  wetting. 

"I  hope  you  like  our  dresses,"  Jane  said,  when 
these  inquiries  had  been  duly  answered. 

"  I  marvel  that  you  ever  wear  any  thing  else." 

"  Jane  has  kindly  supplied  the  deficiencies  of  my 
wardrobe ;  the  best  part  of  my  resources  for  a  change 
being  at  the  bottom  of  the  lake  now,  along  with  Mr. 
Morrell's  rifle,"  said  Miss  De  Groot,  with  a  somewhat 
bashful  look. 

"It  is  very  sisterly,  and  very  right." 

The  two  girls  exchanged  glances,  and  Mary  pur 
sued,  laying  her  hand  timidly  on  his  wet  sleeve, 

"The  least  you  can  do,  sir,  is  to  dress  for  dinner, 
after  our  example,  in  the  best  your  wardrobe  affords; 
but  at  least  in  dry  clothes." 

"Yes,"  said  Jane,  "we  are  anxious  about  you, 
Alban  ;  and  see,  Mrs.  Duncan  has  rigged  up  a  dressing- 
room  for  you  by  hanging  our  wet  dresses  across  the 


160  THE    FOREST. 

shanty  on  a  clothes-line,  —  who  could  ever  have  ex 
pected  to  find  a  clothes-line  here  ?  So  go,  like  a  good 
boy,  and  make  your  toilet." 

"It  is  a  privilege  on  which  I  have  not  counted, 
but  shall  be  glad  to  avail  myself  of  it." 

"We  get  along  very  well  with  so  young  a  man," 
whispered  Jane,  when  he  was  gone. 

"Better  than  if  he  were  older  — to  my  notion," 
answered  Mary,  with  a  smile. 

"  True ;  he  seems  more  like  one  of  ourselves.  And 
then  Alban  is  so  brother-like." 

"Have  you  a  brother?"  asked  Mary.  "Nor  I. 
Neither  of  us,  then,  knows  what  a  brother  is  like. 
Not  like  your  cousin  Alban,  I  fancy." 

"  He  is  never  rude  or  familiar,"  said  Jane. 

"  Quite  the  reverse.  He  is  as  courteous  a  knight 
as  lady's  heart  could  wish." 

"  Equal  to  a  Southerner,"  observed  Jane. 

"  And  so  much  authority,  when  it  is  needed.  You 
must  obey  him,  after  all.  I  find  that  very  disembar 
rassing  —  don't  you  ?  It  is  really  a  rare  union  —  that 
New  England  sternness  and  thoughtfulness  of  your 
cousin's,  and  the  chivalrous  feeling,  like  the  most 
generous  Southron,  as  you  say,  which  he  has  for  us 
poor  women.  I  attribute  it,  do  you  know,  to  the  in 
fluence  of  his  faith?" 


THE    FOKEST.  161 

"Is  it  of  so  recent  date ?  "  inquired  Jane,  with  a 
slight  sarcasm. 

"  The  groundwork  —  the  seed  —  was  in  his  natural 
disposition,  I  grant  you;  and  his  high-toned  female 
relatives  have  nurtured  it  by  their  influence;  but  it 
is  the  Catholic  religion  that  has  made  it  shoot  out  so 
suddenly  into  such  a  perfect  flower  of  knighthood ! " 
said  Mary  with  a  smile. 

"Well,"  said  Jane,  "the  principal  reason  why  I 
have  so  much  confidence  in  Alban  is,  that  I  think  he 
is  so  pure-minded." 

"Nay,"  replied  Mary,  with  a  reddening  cheek,  as 
if  she  felt  all  at  once  that  the  conversation  was  getting 
silly,  "we  confide  in  him  too  much  if  we  need  that 
excuse.  We  should  not  waive  one  maidenly  punctilio 
in  his  favour,  were  he  an  angel  in  human  shape ;  — 
but  hush!  our  host  approaches." 

Duncan  drew  near,  with  his  gray  marten  cap  in 
hand,  to  pay  his  respects  to  the  daughter  of  the 
"  Patroon,"  as  he  called  Mr.  De  Groot.  He  had  been 
her  father's  guide  at  Racket  Lake.  It  was  hardly  a 
fortnight  since  Mr.  De  Groot  had  spent  the  night  in 
his  cabin  on  the  very  skins  upon  which  his  daughter 
was  sitting.  Mary  started  forward  with  interest  at 
mention  of  her  father,  but  drew  back  disappointed 
when  she  found  that  Mr.  Duncan's  news  of  him  was 


162  THE    FOREST. 

less  recent  than  her  own.  A  question  or  two  elicited 
the  fact  that  the  trapper  had  been  dismissed  by  her 
father  upon  his  being  taken  ill,  his  services  as  guide, 
as  he  said,  being  no  longer  required.  As  her  father 
was  not  a  man  to  economise  in  such  a  case,  Miss  De 
Groot  inferred  that,  except  as  a  mere  guide,  he  could 
not  have  much  valued  the  services  of  Mr.  Duncan. 
Nevertheless  she  said  what  was  proper,  and  in  a  very 
fascinating  manner ;  though  Jane's  blue  eye  was  loftily 
bent  on  the  earth,  if  such  an  expression  be  allowable. 
Alban  now  reappeared  in  a  dry  shooting-jacket  and 
pants,  of  snow-white  corduroy;  Duncan  withdrew; 
and  the  young  ladies  looked  up  with  a  welcoming 
smile  that  made  the  smoky  old  hut  beautiful. 

The  odour  of  the  broil  now  filled  the  cabin. 
They  would  have  wanted  plates  at  the  very  moment 
when  supper  was  served,  if  Pierre,  with  a  condescend 
ing  forethought  in  regard  to  such  wants,  which  he 
seldom  displayed,  had  not  brought  in  a  lot  of  pine 
chips  —  the  cheap  crockery  of  that  region  —  which  he 
had  just  cut,  in  all  the  rain,  from  the  nearest  tree. 
The  fatigues  and  perils,  the  suffering  and  exposure,  of 
the  day  were  forgotten  in  satisfying  the  keen  appetites 
which  these  circumstances  had  rather  whetted.  They 
needed  no  light  but  that  of  the  fire.  It  showed  the 
countenances  of  all  flushed  with  the  stimulating  repast, 


THE    FOKEST.  163 

and  with  the  reaction  consequent  on  what  they  had 
undergone. 

The  offer  of  the  trapper  to  place  his  cabin  at  the 
disposal  of  the  ladies,  and  seek  a  shelter  for  himself 
and  the  guides  in  the  forest,  was  scarcely  discussed, 
although  Duncan  repeated  it  with  apparent  serious 
ness.  On  the  other  hand,  the  maidens  pretended  that 
their  place  of  repose  must  be  at  the  further  end  of 
the  hut,  in  order  that  it  might  be  screened  from  view 
by  the  extempore  curtain  which  their  hostess  had 
formed;  but  it  was  urged,  with  reason,  that  this  ar 
rangement  would  both  deprive  them  of  the  benefit 
of  the  fire,  and  also  expose  them  to  the  smoke  and 
draughts. 

"Kemain  where  you  are  —  you  cannot  be  better 
placed,"  said  Alban.  "With  some  cloaks  rolled  up 
for  pillows,  and  that  fine  blue  blanket,  which  Pierre 
has  kept  so  dry  in  its  bark  wrapper,  to  cover  your 
feet,  your  couch  will  be  alike  comfortable  and  deco 
rous." 

Duncan  accordingly  laid  a  coftple  more  skins  beside 
them,  for  Margaret,  and  took  what  remained  for  the 
guides  and  himself,  but  not  forgetting  to  assign  the 
best  to  the  youthful  master.  The  wearied  hunters 
lay  down  in  front  of  the  fire  without  ceremony, 
leaving  a  place  next  the  wall  for  our  hero,  who 


164  THE    FOREST. 

presently  took   it,  after  wishing  his  fair  companions 
good-night. 

The  wife  of  the  trapper  had  regarded  these  arrange 
ments  in  silence.  "When  all  had  become  quiet,  as 
Alban  turned  his  back  to  the  wall,  he  perceived  Mrs. 
Duncan  standing  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  shanty. 
The  moment  that  she  caught  his  glance,  she  dropped 
quietly  upon  the  bare  earthy  floor,  as  if  she  meant  to 
lie  there.  His  gallantry  was  shocked,  and  his  heart 
pained,  at  the  idea  of  their  hostess  being  thus  neglected. 
He  urged  her  by  signs  to  take  her  place  beside  Mar 
garet  Dolman ;  and  when  she  refused,  would  have 
risen  to  give  her  the  bear-skin  provided  for  himself, 
whether  she  would  or  not,  but  she  waved  her  dark, 
well-developed  arm  with  a  gesture  of  almost  pathetic 
deprecation  —  a  gesture  so  graceful  that  it  would  have 
become  a  princess,  accompanied  with  a  sweet,  though 
wild  expression  of  the  sun-burnt  features,  so  earnestly 
imploring,  that  with  great  reluctance  he  desisted ;  and 
the  wife  of  the  trapper,  drawing  her  bare  feet  under 
her  blue  petticoat,  an3  making  a  pillow  of  her  swarthy 
arm,  composed  herself  to  sleep. 


THE    FOREST.  165 


CHAPTEE    XI. 

And  thus  in  words  distinct  it  said : — 

"So,  Cyra,  must  it  be; 
The  duties  of  a  wedded  life 

Hath  Heaven  ordained  for  thee." 

All  for  Love. 

THE  hut  of  Duncan  differed  in  many  respects  from  the 
open,  slight  tent  of  bark,  under  which  our  fair  friends 
had  reposed  the  night  before,  or  that  which  the  sports 
men  at  Louis  had  enjoyed.  So  did  the  old  skins  which 
formed  their  hard  couch  to-night  from  the  soft  and 
fragrant  beds  of  hemlock  and  balsam  which  the 
hunters  had  heaped  in  the  shanties.  The  latter  were 
the  poetry  of  this  wild  life,  but  the  cabin  of  the 
squatter  presented  some  of  its  prosaic  aspects. 

The  smoke  came  in  unpleasantly  at  the  gable 
end,  circulated  slowly  along  the  dingy  roof,  and  was 
carried  downward  by  the  draught;  the  high  stone 
chimney  back,  and  the  vast  fire  heaped  against  it, 
struck  into  the  interior  a  heat  that  was  no  less  dis 
agreeable  than  the  smoke ;  cold  currents  rushed  along 


166  THE    FOREST. 

the  floor  to  feed  this  immense  combustion  with  the 
necessary  air.  Moreover,  the  bear-skins  were  not 
only  hard,  but,  as  Atherton  soon  found,  afforded 
lodging  to  other  guests  —  the  constant  pest  of  old 
shanties. 

Against  such  annoyances,  custom  and  fatigue 
made  the  trappers  proof.  The  four  men,  stretched 
in  a  line  across  the  hut  at  Atherton's  side,  slept  as 
soundly  —  while  a  faint  steam  rose  from  their  clothes, 
now  nearly  dried  —  as  if  they  had  reposed  on  hair 
mattresses,  or  swung  in  cleanly  hammocks.  But 
Alban  tossed  on  his  hard  couch,  and  vainly  invoked 
the  restorer  of  nature.  His  brain  began  to  work, 
as  lately  it  had  not  been  wont  in  the  hours  of 
repose,  and  many  thoughts  in  regard  to  their  jour 
ney,  and  its  probable  issue,  the  incidents  of  the  past 
two  days,  and  the  behaviour,  the  words,  and  the 
looks  of  his  companions,  came  rushing  upon  him  in 
a  crowd. 

He  soon  perceived,  too,  by  a  gentle  rustling  from 
time  to  time,  that  his  fairer  neighbours,  perhaps 
from  the  same  general  cause  as  himself,  were  equally 
unable  to  attain  a  state  of  forgetfulness.  A  space  of 
little  more  than  six  inches  separated  the  head  of  his 
bear-skin  from  the  foot  of  their  slightly  elevated 
couch,  so  that  he  could  not  but  be  aware  of  every 


THE    FOKEST.  167 

movement  they  made,  and  after  a  good  deal  more 
than  an  hour  had  elapsed  since  the  hut  first  became 
quiet,  he  heard  them  whispering  to  one  another. 
He  bore  this  for  some  time  without  taking  any 
notice,  withheld  by  his  habitual  respect;  but  at  last 
hearing  a  suppressed  laugh,  accompanied  by  a  more 
bounding  movement,  he  could  resist  the  temptation 
no  longer,  and,  rising  upon  his  elbow,  said  in  a  low 
voice, 

"  You  cannot  sleep,  young  ladies  ? " 

"Not  a  single  wink!"  said  Jane,  immediately 
sitting  up. 

"  Is  your  couch  too  hard,  or  do  you  feel  the  heat 
too  much,  or  is  it  the  smoke  that  annoys  you  ?  " 

"All  of  them  together,"  answered  Jane. 

Miss  De  Groot  whispered  something  to  her,  to 
which  Jane  responded  in  the  same  low  voice  in 
which  she  had  answered  her  cousin,  "  Nonsense !  I 
advise  you  to  follow  my  example.  I  breathe  much 
more  freely  sitting  up.  Since  we  cannot  sleep,  we 
might  as  well  enjoy  each  other's  society,  I  think." 

"  Well,"  said  Mary,  lightly  rising  to  the  same 
posture  as  her  friend,  but  with  a  vivid  blush,  "  if  you 
think  so,  I  will  consider  that  this  is  a  sofa  again." 
And  she  threw  off  Pierre's  blue  blanket,  so  that  it 
just  covered  their  feet.  "But  if  we  talk,"  added  she, 


168  THE    FOREST. 

we  shall  wake  our  hosts  and  the  guides,  which,  it  ap 
pears  to  me,  would  be  selfish." 

"You  need  not  be  in  the  least  afraid  of  that," 
said  Alban,  rising  softly,  and  coming  to  sit  upon  the 
foot  of  the  couch.  "  Those  fellows  would  sleep  through 
a  parliamentary  debate,  much  more  through  our  whis 
pered  conversation.  Do  you  not  perceive  that  not  one 
of  them  stirs  ?  " 

"  Mrs.  Duncan,  however,  is  waking,"  said  Jane. 

"I  declare,  is  she  not  —  lying  on  the  bare  ground?" 
said  Mary  De  Groot,  with  an  expression  of  horror. 

Alban  rose  and  approached  the  wife  of  the  trapper. 

"  Go  and  take  my  place,  next  to  your  husband," 
said  he,  in  a  low  but  imperious  tone.  "  I  insist  upon 
it,"  taking  her  hand. 

After  a  moment's  hesitation,  —  a  bright  blush 
dyeing  her  swarthy  cheek,  but  with  tears  in  her  eyes, 
—  Mrs.  Duncan  obeyed. 

"What  will  you  do  now?"  asked  Jane. 

"We  will  take  one  of  the  skins  off  from  this 
concern,"  said  Mary,  playfully  patting  the  couch,  "and 
give  it  to  him." 

"  True  I  "  said  Jane. 

"Not  yet,"  replied  Atherton.  "Let  us  converse 
awhile.  Perhaps  we  shall  become  sleepy  at  last." 

"I  wish  you  would   tell  us  a  story,  Alban.     Do 


THE    FOEEST.  169 

you  know,  Mary,  that  he  can  repeat  whole  novels  from 
beginning  to  end.     Come,  tell  us  one,  Alban." 

"I  don't  know  any  that  you  have  not  heard ;  but 
Miss  De  Groot  is  a  famous  story-teller." 

"I,  Mr.  Atherton!"  He  did  not  remember  her 
ever  calling  him  so  before. 

"Yes,  school-adventures  of  your  own,  and  so  on 
—  I  used  to  think  you  narrated  very  vividly." 

"  Oh,  that  was  when  the  fit  was  on,  and  I  was  in 
the  confidential  humour,"  said  Mary,  blushing.  "I 
could  not  tell  a  story  of  set  purpose." 

"  When  will  you  be  in  the  confidential  humour," 
he  answered,  laughing,  "if  not  at  midnight  in  this 
smoky  hut,  nobody  listening  but  ourselves,  those  heavy 
sleepers  at  our  feet,  and  each  of  you  girls  able  to  see 
by  the  other,  the  same  as  by  a  looking-glass,  how  well 
she  herself  looks  in  those  bewitching  little  caps  I 
Come,  you  must  really  tell  us  some  story  of  your 
girlish  days,  or  of  the  convent,  or  of  the  Virginia 
Springs,  where  you  have  been  this  summer  —  I  am 
sure  you  have  material  enough." 

^I_shpuld  like  of  all  things  a  convent  story,"  said 
Jane.  "  Some  beautiful  young  creature  attempted  to 
be  made  a  nun  of  against  her  will,  and  escaping  with 
her  lover,  for  instance  —  come,  Mary !  " 

Miss  De  Groot  bent  down  and  rested  her  forehead 
8 


THE    FOKEST. 

a  moment  upon  her  hand,  with  the  elbow  supported 
on  her  knee. 

"I  could  tell  you  a  convent  story,"  said  she,  looking 
up,  with  a  delightful  glance  at  both  her  companions, 
"but  not  so  romantic  as  Jane  would  wish.  — Pray, 
make  yourselves  comfortable." 

"We  are,"  said  Jane. 

"I  am,"  said  Alban. 

"I  might  tell  you  how  I  came  to  be  acquainted 
with  the  particulars,  but  you  can  imagine  that,  as  I 
go  on.  So  I  will  begin  just  as  if  it  were  a  story 
made  up,  and  a  good  deal  of  it  will  be  word  for  word 
from  memory  as  I  heard  it." 

"  Charming  1 "  cried  Jane.     "  That  is  just  what  I 

like." 

So  in  a  voice  of  low  sweetness,  not  so  ringing  and 
clear  as  Jane's,  not  (of  course)  so  deep  and  murmuring 
as  Alban's,  but  which  fell  upon  the  ear  of  the  listeners 
like  a  charm,  and  with  a  lulling  cadence  upon  that  of 
the  sleepers,  deepening  their  repose,  Mary  began 

In:  |tnrt[. 

"About  thirty  or  forty  years  ago  (Mr.  Alban 
knows  the  exact  year,  I  dare  say)  there  was  a  rebel 
lion  in  Ireland,  as  every  school-girl  knows,  when 


THE    FOREST.  171 

Kobert  Emmet,  whose  beautiful  last  speech  is  in  our 
reading-books,  lost  his  life  with  many  others.  Many 
more,  equally  guilty  of  the  crime  for  which  he  suf 
fered,  had  the  good  fortune  to  escape,  and  among 
these  was  a  young  man,  the  friend  of  Lord  Edward 
Fitzgerald,  and  named  De  Montmorency  —  which,  every 
body  knows,  is  the  name  of  a  family  in  the  south  of 
Ireland." 

"They  must    have    been   French   originally,"   ob 
served  Jane,  who  was  well  read  in  history. 

"  Normans,"  replied  her  friend,  "  who  came  over 
and  conquered  England  first,  and  afterwards  got  a 
settlement  in  certain  parts  of  Ireland,  (for  they  never 
conquered  it,)  and,  after  a  few  years,  became  more 
Irish  than  the  Irish  themselves,  as  Mr.  Alban,  no 
doubt,  remembers  to  have  heard.  One  of  these  Mont- 
morencies,  who  were  great  chiefs  in  their  day,  Jane, 
was  stripped  of  his  estate  by  Cromwell,  for  the  double 
crime  of  malignancy  (that  is,  loyalty  to  his  king)  and 
Popery,  (that  is,  fidelity  to  his  religion,)  arid  afterwards, 
in  the  grateful  reign  of  Charles  II.,  was  thrown  into 
prison  and  kept  there  till  he  nearly  rotted,  (so  my 
story  says,)  for  harbouring  a  priest  as  loyal  as  himself. 
The  rebel  Montmorency  of  '98  (was  it  not?)  was  the 
lineal  representative  of  the  royalist  of  1650,  (that's  a 
date  I  remember  in  my  chronology,)  and  having  been 


172  THE    FOREST. 

educated  in  France,  in  defiance  of  the  laws  of  his 
country,  he  either  had,  or  thought  he  had,  good  reason 
to  hate  the  English  yoke.  How  shamefully,  Mr.  Alban, 
England  has  treated  Ireland !  " 

"  To  rob  a  Christian  nation  of  its  means  of  self- 
culture  is  one  of  the  greatest  public  crimes  that  can 
possibly  be  committed  —  you  are  right." 

"That  is  just   what   De   Montmorency  said,  and 
insisted  that  '  such  rulers  were  not  a  government,  but 
an  eternal,  hereditary  banditti,  with  the  knife  always 
at  their  poor  victim's  throat,  and  their  hand  always 
seizing   his   purse.'  — That    is   from    memory.     Well, 
some  of  the  patriots  fled  to  America,  but  De  Mont 
morency  escaped  to  France,  which  was  already  half  a 
country  to   him.     As   he   had   acquired   in   his   rebel 
career    a   taste   for    military  affairs,    he    entered    the 
French  army,  in  company  with  other  exiles.     From 
their  national  bravery,  all  who  were  not  killed  got 
on.     De  Montmorency  became  a  noted  cavalry  officer 
in  the  wars  of  Napoleon.     Bearing,  as  it  chanced,  one 
of  the  noblest  names  of  France,  he  was  all  the  more 
acceptable  on  that  account  to  the  Emperor,  who,  in 
the  distribution  of  rewards   after   some   great  battle, 
gave  him  a  German  title,  and  he  became  Count  Mont 
morency  de  Eeichsthal. 

"  Besides  that,  he  had  connexions  in  France.     Be- 


THE    FOEEST.  173 

fore  the  affair  of  '98  turned  out  so  badly,  while  yet 
in  his  native  country,  he  had  married  an  emigree,  the 
widow  of  a  high  French  nobleman  who  was  guillotined 
in  the  Reign  of  Terror.  He  educated  her  children  as 
carefully  as  his  own,  and  obtained  a  restoration  of 
their  estates,  although  he  never  became  very  rich 
himself,  as  he  was  too  honourable  to  use  his  oppor 
tunities  of  plunder,  when  given  the  command  of  some 
conquered  district  or  wealthy  town.  But  by  and 
by  Napoleon  fell,  and  down  went  the  fortunes  of  De 
Montmorency.  He  joined  the  Emperor  on  his  return 
from  Elba,  and  that  lost  him  every  thing.  His  name 
was  erased  from  the  list  of  French  generals ;  he  was 
obliged  to  fly  from  France;  he  had  already  lost  all 
the  revenues  of  his  German  county ;  he  was  a  poor 
exile  again,  as  when  he  first  escaped  from  an  English 
jail. 

"In  the  most  ancient  convent  of  the  Visitation 
in  France  was  educated  Marie  de  Montmorency  de 
Eeichsthal,  the  only  daughter  of  this  Irish  soldier. 
She  was  beautiful,  Jane,  highly  gifted,  and  very  pious 
from  her  earliest  years.  From  the  very  first  she  mani 
fested  a  desire  to  consecrate  herself  to  God  among  the 
daughters  of  St.  Jane  Frances  of  Chantal;  and  the 
noble  band  of  Sisters  to  whose  care  she  had  been 
committed  by  a  dying  mother,  already  looked  upon 


174  THE    FOREST. 

her  as  one  of  their  future  associates.  As  she  grew 
up,  her  vocation  became  more  and  more  evident. 
It  was  commonly  believed  in  the  convent  that  Marie 
de  Keichsthal  had  never  committed  a  mortal  sin,  and 
some  said  never  a  deliberate  venial  one ;  and,  in  short, 
so  good  was  she,  and  so  single-minded  in  her  choice 
of  religion,  that  when  it  was  known  her  father  intended 
to  'marry'  her,  as  they  say  in  France,  and  that  for  that 
purpose  the  day  was  fixed  when  she  would  be  with 
drawn  from  them,  the  whole  convent  was  plunged  in 
grief,  and  even  the  cautious  Mother  Superior,  and  the 
young  lady's  director,  more  cautious  still,  declared 
that  to  force  her  into  the  world  would  be  to  frustrate 
a  plain  vocation  and  oppose  the  manifest  will  of  God. 

"  This  was  about  the  time  of  the  Emperor's  down 
fall,  and  Mademoiselle  de  Eeichsthal  remained  in  the 
convent  after  the  period  designated  by  her  father,  on 
account  of  the  troubles,  which  the  good  Superior  and 
the  Ladies  of  the  Visitation  regarded  as  a  pure  Provi 
dence  in  her  favour.  Still  more  when  her  father  was 
banished,  and  her  fortune  lost,  they  congratulated 
themselves  that  they  should  at  least  acquire  a  saint, 
and  her  that  worldly  adversity  would  probably  open 
to  her  the  path  of  heavenly  peace. 

"The  relatives  of  Mademoiselle  de  Eeichsthal,  on 
the  mother's  side,  were  in  high  favour  with  the  new 


THE    FOREST.  175 

government  of  France,  but  for  that  very  reason  they 
did  not  care  to  embarrass  themselves  with  the  care  of 
settling  a  young  lady  whose  name  was  disagreeable 
to  the  restored  family,  as  that  of  a  devoted  partisan 
of  the  Usurper,  as  he  was  called ;  and  her  aunt,  more 
particularly,  the  Duchess  de  Eosieres,  upon  whom,  in 
her  father's  absence,  the  right  devolved  of  being  con 
sulted  in  regard  to  her  destiny,  was  quite  of  opinion 
that  a  portionless  young  person,  of  partly  foreign  ex 
traction,  and  whose  father  was  in  hopeless  disgrace, 
could  not  be  provided  for  so  convenaUemerit,  in  any 
other  way,  as  by  taking  the  veil  in  a  distinguished 
convent. 

"  This  being  settled,  it  was  determined  to  write  to 
her  father,  and  if  his  consent  could  be  obtained,  that 
Mademoiselle  should  immediately  begin  her  probation 
as  a  postulant.  After  some  months  had  elapsed,  during 
which  de  Eeichsthal  was  not  heard  from,  except  a 
single  letter  in  which  he  expressed  the  fear  that  no 
other  resource  but  the  cloister  would  ever  be  open  to 
his  daughter,  it  was  thought  that  she  might  be  allowed 
to  commence  the  term  of  trial. 

"  It  was  only  a  few  weeks  after  this  that  a  stranger 
presented  himself  at  the  convent,  and  demanded  to 
see  Mademoiselle  de  Montmorency.  Of  course  this 
was  refused,  when  he  showed  a  letter  of  introduction 


176  THE    FOREST. 

to  her  father  from  an  Irish  exile  in  America,  and  stated 
that  his  sole  wish  was  to  obtain  General  de  Montmo- 
rency's  address.  This  was  readily  furnished  by  the 
Mother  Superior.  It  was  somewhere  in  Spain,  but 
nobody  knew  precisely  that  he  was  to  be  found  there, 
as  his  recent  movements  had  been  not  a  little  un 
certain. 

"And  now  comes  the  most  romantic  part  of  my 
story.  The  stranger,  who  was  an  American  and  a 
man  of  large  fortune,  (I  will  call  him  Eugenio,  because 
he  was  so  well  born,)  persisted  in  the  wish  to  see  Made 
moiselle  de  Montmorency,  as  he  called  her.  I  rather 
think  that  he  was  chiefly  influenced  by  a  sort  of  habit 
of  never  taking  a  denial  or  suffering  a  disappointment 
in  any  thing  he  had  undertaken.  He  was  going  to 
Spain,  he  said;  he  should  certainly  endeavour  to  find 
General  de  Montmorency;  and  no  doubt  it  would  be 
gratifying  to  the  latter  to  receive  a  message  from  his 
daughter  by  the  lips  of  one  who  had  actually  seen 
her.  In  short,  the  Superior  referred  him  to  Ma 
dame  de  Kosie'res.  He  went  away,  and  she  thought 
she  had  got  rid  of  him.  But  the  very  next  day  who 
should  appear  but  the  stranger,  accompanied  by  the 
Duchess  herself? 

"  Mademoiselle  appeared  behind  the  grille,  meekly 
listened  to  the  stranger's  observations,  and  requested 


THE    FOREST.  177 

him,  in  the  choicest  terms  of  dictated  politeness  and 
filial  interest,  to  present  her  duty  to  her  father,  if  he 
should  be  so  fortunate  as  to  meet  him,  to  which  the 
Lady  Superior  added  a  letter,  written  by  Mademoiselle 
herself,  to  be  delivered  to  the  General;  and  so  the 
stranger  took  leave." 

"  That  is  very  interesting,"  Jane  said. 

"Yery,"  said  Alban. 

"  Eugenio  went  to  Spain,  where  he  singularly  and 
quite  providentially  encountered  de  Eeichsthal.  The 
latter,  imbittered  by  a  sense  of  wrong,  had  suffered 
himself  to  be  drawn  into  one  of  those  schemes  which 
preceded  the  Spanish  revolution  of  1820,  that  we 
have  read  about  in  our  histories.  The  affair  had  been 
betrayed,  and  de  Eeichsthal  was  skulking  in  the 
house  of  a  South  American  merchant,  to  avoid  the 
agents  of  the  government.  The  traveller  had  a 
credit  on  this  merchant,  and  happening,  after  draw 
ing  some  money,  to  remember  the  Irish  exile  to 
whom  he  had  letters,  inquired  if  the  merchant  knew 
aught  of  Count  Montmorency  de  Eeichsthal.  The 
banker,  who  was  a  Jew,  and  had  relations  in  New 
York,  at  first  denied  all  knowledge  of  such  a  person, 
but  on  Eugenio's  carelessly  mentioning  some  other 
particulars,  the  letter  from  his  daughter  especially, 

became  more  communicative,   and   finally  took  him 

8* 


178  THE    FOREST. 

to  his  house,  and  to  the  very  chamber  where  De 
Montmorency  was  concealed.  In  short,  Eugenio, 
young,  wealthy,  generous,  and  a  lover  of  freedom, 
offered  the  latter  his  purse  and  personal  assist 
ance  to  get  out  of  this  last  scrape  in  which  his 
adventurous,  confiding  spirit,  and  national  want  of 
caution,  had  involved  him.  De  Eeichsthal  having 
been  disguised  as  a  servant,  by  dint  of  a  large  bribe 
to  the  police  on  one  occasion,  they  got  out  of  Spain, 
and  travelling  together  from  that  time  as  friends, 
reached  Paris  in  safety. 

"General  de  Montmorency  was  resolved  to  go 
to  Paris,  I  must  observe,  because  he  wished  to  con 
vert  some  property  he  had  there  into  money,  in 
order  to  repay  the  sums  advanced  by  Eugenio.  The 
latter  was  too  delicate  to  refuse,  which  laid  the  high- 
minded  soldier  under  a  new  obligation,  as  he  under 
stood  it.  Death  most  probably  would  have  been 
his  fate,  had  he  fallen  into  the  hands  of  the  Spanish 
government,  or  imprisonment  for  life  in  some  horrible 
fortress.  So  he  was  naturally  very  grateful.  The 
first  thing  that  he  thought  of  was  that  his  daughter 
must  see  and  thank  the  deliverer  of  her  father." 

"  Of  course,"  said  Jane. 

"It  is  easy  to  see  what  is  coming  now,"  observed 
Alban,  with  a  smile. 


THE    FOREST.  179 

Gradually,  and  unconsciously,  they  had  all  nestled 
together  on  the  wide  couch,  like  two  sisters  and  a 
brother,  only  Alban  was  a  trifle  nearer  to  Mary  than 
to  his  cousin.  Jane  listened  and  looked ;  Mary's  eyes, 
as  of  old,  sought  the  roof,  the  floor,  the  vacant 
walls ;  but  her  face  was  all  a  soft  glow. 

"  When  a  young  lady  has  become  a  postulant  in 
a  religious  order,  it  is  not  easy  to  withdraw  her  from 
it,  and  by  the  time  that  de  Keichsthal  and  Eugenio 
arrived  in  Paris  together,  Mademoiselle  de  Mont- 
morency  ought  regularly  to  have  taken  the  white 
veil.  'I  fear,'  said  de  Eeichsthal,  'that  there  may 
be  a  difficulty :  for  those  who  have  once  embraced 
the  sacred  vocation  are  supposed  to  be  dead  to 
human  ties.  But  at  least  I  can  recommend  you  to 
her  prayers.'  Eugenio  would  have  disliked  the  idea 
of  being  thanked  for  any  thing  he  had  done  as  a 
mere  friend  and  man  of  the  world,  had  he  not  been 
a  little  desirous  to  see  once  more  the  beautiful 
novice,  who,  in  a  plain  black  dress,  with  a  white 
muslin  veil  over  her  smooth  black  hair,  had  stood 
before  him  beside  the  M£re  Superieure,  behind  the 
grille  of  her  convent,  and  said  those  few  words  with 
out  even  raising  her  meek,  beautiful  eyes  from  the 
ground.  He  just  was  curious  for  a  repetition  of  the 
scene,  I  suppose,  and  wondered  whether  the  nun,  as 


180  THE    FOKEST. 

she  was  now,  would  venture  to  do  what  the  postulant 
had  not,  and  lift  her  eyes  for  a  single  moment  to  his 
face,  in  thanking  him  for  saving  her  father  from 
death  or  a  prison. 

"It  was  necessary  to  be  extremely  cautious,  for 
although  De  Montmorency  was  furnished  with  a  pass 
port  very  skilfully  obtained,  he  was  known  too  well 
to  hope  that  he  could  escape  detection  if  he  appeared 
openly  in  Paris.  No  one  could  be  admitted  within 
the  convent  after  sunset,  and  it  was  dangerous  to  go 
by  day.  So  Eugenio  first  carried  a  note  from  his 
friend — to  the  Superior.  He  was  by  no  means 
well  received,  and  it  was  not  till  he  was  about  to 
leave,  without  any  satisfaction,  that  the  Superior  told 
him,  with  the  coldness  of  French  high-breeding,  that 
if  he  or  any  one  else  desired  any  information  in  regard 
to  Mademoiselle  de  Eeichsthal,  they  must  apply  to  her 
aunt,  Madame  la  duchesse  de  Eosieres. 

"In  short,"  pursued  Mary,  "General  de  Montmo 
rency  himself  then  proceeded  to  call  upon  his  sister- 
in-law  in  the  evening,  and  learned  that  immediately 
after  the  visit  which  she  had  paid  to  her  niece  with 
Eugenio,  she  had  thought  proper  to  take  her  away 
from  the  convent,  with  a  view  to  introduce  her  into 
the  society  of  the  capital.  Both  Mademoiselle  herself, 
and  the  Superior,  had  indeed  strongly  objected  to  her 


THE    FOREST.  181 

being  removed  before  she  had  completed  her  period 
of  probation,  but  Madame  de  Eosieres,  being  very 
influential,  had  easily  obtained  an  order  from  the 
Archbishop  that  her  niece  should  be  surrendered  to 
her  without  delay.  Madame  de  Eosieres  wanted,  you 
understand,  to  make  a  grand  marriage  for  her  niece 
in  the  new  court,  and  she  was  sanguine  of  success, 
because  she  was  so  much  more  beautiful  than  almost 
any  young  Frenchwoman  of  rank  ever  is,  and  with 
all  that,  had  received  the  purest  and  most  perfect 
education  of  one.  She  was  no  more  called  Made 
moiselle  de  Eeichsthal,  but  Mademoiselle  de  Montmo- 
rency,  and  under  that  name  she  had  been  for  six 
months  shining,  like  a  bright,  silent  star,  beside  her 
brilliant  aunt,  in  the  circles  of  the  old  Faubourg. 

"So  there  was  no  more  difficulty  about  Eugenio 
being  presented  to  her,  or  her  being  presented  to  him, 
just  as  you  please.  It  was  rather  romantic,  and  all 
that,  to  see  her  now  in  an  evening  saloon  of  the  old 
Hotel  de  Eosieres,  in  all  the  elegance  of  a  youthful 
toilette,  Jane,  and  hear  her  pronounce  from  memory, 
as  before,  but  with  so  much  grace,  the  little  speech 
prepared  for  her,  to  thank  him  for  the  kindness  he 
had  shown  to  her  father.  Eugenio  was  captivated,  as 
you  anticipate.  The  manners  of  France  allowed  no 
gradual  acquaintance  and  courtship  like  ours,  so  he 


182  THE    FOEEST. 

made  proposals  at  once  to  her  father.  Nothing  could 
have  been  more  agreeable  to  De  Montmorency,  who 
had  already  resolved  to  retire  to  the  United  States, 
but  her  aunt  de  Kosieres,  and  other  friends  on  the 
mother's  side,  objected  to  it  strongly,  as  they  did  not 
conceive  that  a  simple  American  seigneur,  as  Eugenio 
was,  was  a  suitable  parti  for  Mademoiselle  de  Mont 
morency  ;  and,  besides,  he  was  not  a  Catholic.  This 
was  a  great  difficulty,  on  account  of  the  religious 
scruples  of  the  young  lady  herself,  and  the  vehement 
opposition  sure  to  be  made  by  her  director  and  the 
Ladies  of  the  Visitation,  whose  influence  over  her  was 
naturally  very  great." 

Jane  here  showed  a  very  lively  interest. 

"  Eugenio  had  a  sort  of  fancy  for  the  Catholic 
Church,  such  as  many  philosophic  persons  have,  and 
his  eagerness  to  marry  Mademoiselle  de  Montmorency, 
very  much  increased  by  the  opposition  he  encountered, 
made  him  willing  to  make  every  promise  that  could 
be  required  in  regard  to  her  faith.  This  smoothed 
the  affair  very  much,  and  as  her  father  was  certainly 
going  to  America,  the  advantage  of  having  Mademoi 
selle  married  into  one  of  the  richest  and  most  distin 
guished  families  of  that  country,  was  apparent  even 
to  her  mother's  relatives.  Madame  de  Kosieres,  too, 
failed  in  arranging  another  alliance  to  her  satisfaction, 


THE    FOKEST.  183 

from  the  embarrassing  position  of  M.  de  Reichsthal, 
and  so  at  last  the  consent  of  the  whole  family  was 
gained.  For  every  thing,  you  know,  was  arranged 
between  the  lover  and  the  friends.  Mademoiselle  de 
Montmorency,  submissive  to  the  will  of  her.  father, 
and  the  judgment  of  her  aunts,  was  content  to  practise 
in  the  most  important  action  of  her  life  that  obedience 
which  she  had  learned  to  consider  as  the  first  of 
virtues.  Not  till  the  marriage  treaty  was  settled,  was 
it  even  discussed  in  her  presence,  and  then  it  was 
only  submitted  to  her  once  for  her  information  and 
silent  acquiescence.  Her  director  advised  her  that  it 
appeared  to  be  the  will  of  God  she  should  remain  in 
the  world,  since  by  marrying  she  would  provide  an 
immense  appui  for  a  father  failing  in  years  and  nearly 
destitute  of  resources ;  and  her  filial  heart  responded 
at  once  that  this  was  indeed  her  calling.  She  made 
her  retreat ;  the  trousseau  and  wedding  presents  were 
provided ;  the  dispensation  was  obtained ;  the  nuptials 
•were  celebrated  in  the  most  solemn  form,  with  the 
benediction  and  every  thing,  by  a  special  permission ; 
and  —  Eugenio  —  bore  away  his  bride." 

"  Delightful  I  "  said  Jane. 

"  Now,"  said  Mary  De  Groot,  "  I  must  cut  short 
the  rest  of  my  story,  although  it  is  just  here  that  it 
begins  to  be  interesting  to  me.  General  de  Montmo- 


184  THE    FOREST. 

rency,  I  must  tell  you,  took  the  yellow  fever  soon 
after  their  arrival  in  America,  and  died ;  so  that  his 
daughter  was  left  quite  alone  with  her  husband  in 
her  new  country. 

"  Alas !  that  I  must  say  it  was  no  happy  one  to 
her  —  though  perhaps  you  will  hardly  believe  it,  Jane." 

"I  can  well  understand,"  said  Jane,  "that  she  and 
her  husband  were  too  little  acquainted  before  marriage, 
and  so  might  not  suit  each  other." 

"How  can  faith  mate  with  unbelief?"  replied  Mary 
seriously :  —  "  obedience  with  self-will  —  simple  piety 
with  intellectual  self-reliance  —  humility  with  pride 
untamed?  Above  all,  purity  nursed  in  the  cloister, 
how  could  it  bear  the  idolatries  of  passion  as  taught 
by  the  poets  and  romancers  of  the  world !  —  I  should 
be  sorry,  for  several  reasons,  if  you  thought  these  were 
my  own  thoughts  or  words:  —  they  are  those  of  a 
person  who  knew  my  —  who  knew  all  this  history, 
and  told  it  to  me.  A  young  American  of  four  and 
twenty,  educated  at  Harvard,  and  finished  off  in  Ger 
many,  was,  my  informant  said,  and  I  suppose  it  is 
true,  Mr.  Alban,  but  a  polished  heathen  after  all ;  and 
the  young  French-Irish  woman,  bred  by  the  Sisters 
of  the  Visitation,  had  the  Christian  type  of  woman 
hood  as  deeply  stamped  in  her  soul,  as  the  Blessed 
Mere  de  Chantal  stamped  the  name  of  Jesus  with  the 


THE    FOEEST.  185 

red-hot  iron  on  her  own  breast.  Yet  different  as  their 
ideal  was,  Eugenio  did  not  love  his  wife  more  truly 
than  she  loved  him.  He  had  the  sense  to  see  it  too, 
and  it  only  irritated  him  the  more,  because  she  still 
loved  God  better.  He  wished  to  be  her  God.  He 
never  meant  to  interfere  with  her  religion,  yet  he 
ended  by  interfering  with  it  notably,  denying  that  he 
did  so.  She  gradually  retreated  into  the  least  amount 
of  external  devotion  that  she  could  without  sin,  but 
even  then,  the  perpetual  offering  of  her  soul  to  her 
Maker,  in  silent  prayer,  or  meek  suffering,  or  sweet 
patience,  displeased  her  husband,  who  saw  that  it  was 
done  chiefly  for  the  love  of  God,  and  but  secondarily 
for  the  love  of  him. 

"By  and  by,"  continued  Mary,  after  a  moment's 
reflection,  "there  was  a  new  cause  of  dissension  be 
tween  them,  in  their  child,  dating  from  the  very 
moment  of  its  birth.  Eugenio  (to  do  him  justice) 
knowing  nothing  of  the  Catholic  doctrine  when  he 
married,  understood  the  engagements  into  which  he 
had  entered  with  respect  to  the  education  of  his  chil 
dren —  if  God  should  bless  him  with  any  —  in  a 
purely  Protestant,  or  I  should  say,  Mr.  Alban,  a  philo 
sophic  sense.  That  they  were  to  be  taught  the  Catholic 
religion  from  their  earliest  years  he  expected,  but  not 
that  they  were  to  be  made  members  of  the  Church  as 


186  THE    FOREST. 

soon  as  they  were  born,  and,  as  lie  expressed  it,  irre 
trievably  committed  to  it  before  they  were  of  age  to 
choose  for  themselves.  But  his  wife's  idea  was  that 
they  should  be  baptized  forthwith,  taught  to  lisp  the 
Ave  and  Confiteor,  as  soon  as  they  could  speak,  taken 
to  confession  at  eight  years,  be  confirmed  and  make 
their  first  communion,  certainly,  before  they  were 
twelve. 

"  *  What,  you  expect  to  make  complete  Eoman  Cath 
olics  of  my  children,  madam,  before  they  are  in  their 
teens ! '  cried  her  husband. 

" '  Certainly,  yes,'  answered  she,  pale,  but  trying 
to  smile,  '  before  they  are  a  week  old.  When  a  baby 
is  christened  it  is  a  complete  Catholic,  tout  de  suite. 
You  know  that  as  well  as  I,  my  dear  Eugene,7 

"  '  They  sha'n't  be  christened,  then,'  exclaimed  her 
husband,  with  a  terrible  oath. 

"  'You  do  not  mean  that,  I  am  sure,  Eugene.  You 
would  never  forfeit  your  word.' 

"  '  Forfeit  my  word ! '  cried  he,  angrily.  *  When 
did  I  ever  promise  any  thing  about  christening  and 
confessing,  confirming  and  communing?  It  is  not  in 
the  bond.  Take  the  pound  of  flesh,  if  you  like,  but 
not  one  drop  of  blood.  I  am  by  no  means  sure,'  con 
tinued  he,  '  that  I  had  any  right  to  promise  away  the 
responsibilities  of  a  father,  but  nothing  that  I  have  not 


THE    FOEEST.  187 

literally  promised  will  I  grant.  I  am  the  protector 
of  my  children  against  the  superstition  into  which 
you  would  initiate  them,  and  I  will  surely  be  an 
effectual  one.' " 

"  Ah,  well,  I  think  that  was  very  cruel,"  said  Jane, 
"  and  very  unreasonable,  too ;  for  nothing  could  be  so 
bad  for  the  children,  as  to  be  brought  up  neither  one 
thing  nor  the  other." 

"That  is  precisely  what  Eugenio  did  not  think," 
replied  Mary  De  Groot.  "He  wished  them  to  grow 
up,  as  he  said,  unbiassed  towards  any  religion.  But 
do  not  think  too  ill  of  him,  for  I  am  certain  he  had 
persuaded  himself  that  he  was  doing  his  duty. 

"What  novenas  the  unhappy  lady  kept  for  the 
conversion  of  her  husband  and  salvation  of  her  child ! 
It  might  be  said,  indeed,  that  she  prayed  for  both  these 
objects  without  any  intermission  —  by  day  and  by  night. 
To  obtain  them,  she  made  a  daily  oblation  of  her  own 
tastes,  preferences,  and  will,  to  the  will  of  God,  as 
expressed  to  her  first  by  the  Church  and  then  by  her 
husband.  Apart  from  her  religion,  it  seemed  that  no 
wife  could  excel  or  equal  her  in  the  exactness  and  cor 
diality  of  her  conjugal  obedience,  or  in  the  tenderness 
of  her  love.  She  schooled  herself  to  love  her  husband 
in  his  most  unamiable  moods,  with  as  much  simplicity 
as  in  their  hours  of  fondness.  Although  she  was  in- 


188  THE    FOREST. 

different  to  dress,  and  averse  to  ornaments,  she  strove 
to  please  him  by  both.  She  endeavoured,  not  without 
success,  to  find  points  of  intellectual  sympathy  with 
him,  read  with  untiring  diligence,  and  the  utmost  efforts 
to  master  their  meaning,  the  books  which  he  recom 
mended  or  praised,  and  cultivated  with  assiduity  the 
graceful  accomplishments  he  prized.  She  would  take 
her  infant,  and  with  an  air  of  delight  point  out  its 
resemblance  to  its  father,  and  make  it  crow  with  delight 
while  she  tossed  it  at  arm's-length  at  his  handsome, 
haughty  face,  and  dark,  rich  locks,  with  which  she 
taught  the  baby  to  play,  though  seldom  and  timidly 
(whether  she  stood  in  awe  of  him  or  not)  she  did  so 
herself.  Ah,  she  was  —  she  must  have  been  —  an 
admirable  wife !  De  —  Eugenio  —  was  of  course  kind 
at  such  times,  nay,  habitually.  He  was  enamoured, 
I  suppose,  of  his  wife,  and  while  the  baby  was  a  baby 
they  got  on  pretty  well  —  sunshine,  for  the  most  part, 
without,  even  if  there  was  storm  within ;  smiles  when 
together ;  tears  in  secret.  But  when  the  infant  began 
to  form  words,  which  it  did  marvellously  early,  a  cloud 
came  over  the  proud  sire.  The  first  word  it  lisped  was 
the  name  of  its  Redeemer,  and  before  it  could  say 
another,  its  mother  had  begun  to  hold  it  night  and 
morning  on  its  knees  upon  the  desk  of  her  priedieu 
before  a  large  silver  crucifix  that  adorned  it,  to  fold 


THE    FOEEST.  189 

its  tiny  hands  in  both  hers,  make  it  utter  as  it  might 
the  sacred  name,  and  press  its  soft  lips  to  the  feet  of 
the  holy  image.  Before  the  child  had  seen  its  second 
birth-day,  it  could  'bless'  itself,  and  say  the  Lord's 
Prayer;  the  Hail  Mary  soon  followed.  Then  came 
an  outburst  of  paternal  wrath.  This  was  not  simple 
instruction,  as  Eugenio  understood  it.  It  was  the  for 
mation  of  habits.  The  mother's  intellect  had  been 
rendered  acute  by  her  peculiar  and  painful  position, 
and  by  the  demands  of  her  husband. 

"  *  You  ask  incompatible  things,  Eugene,'  she  said. 
'  The  Catholic  religion  cannot  be  taught  as  you  would 
have  it.  Essentiellement,  it  commences  with  forming 
acts  and  turning  them  into  habits,  before  the  under 
standing  is  or  can  be  fully  enlightened.  It  considers 
that  to  instruct  the  understanding  without  training 
the  will,  would  be  to  infuse  a  poison.  What !  shall  I 
teach  ma  fille  more  late '  —  she  always  spoke  imperfect 
English  when  moved,  which  irritated  her  husband, 
and  excited  his  contempt  —  '  shall  I  teach  my  daughter 
at  a  later  period  that  the  saints  are  to  be  invoked,  to 
be  asked  why  it  never  invoked  them  before  ?  Shall 
I  one  day  instruct  it  in  the  need  of  baptism,  to  have 
it  ask  why  it  has  never  been  washed  in  the  font  ? 
Must  I  then  say,  Because  thy  father  believes  not  so? 
Will  it  then  find  its  faith  cruelly  taken  away,  and  its 


190  THE    FOEEST. 

whole  moral  edifice  thrown  down  from  the  founda 
tions?  Shall  it  imbibe,  not  faith  and  obedience, 
but  doubt  and  self-choice,  as  the  dreadful  heritage  of 
these  miserable  disputes?  Better,'  she  passionately 
concluded,  '  take  it,  feed  it  with  your  own  doctrine, 
if  you  deem  any  certain,  than  poison  thus  the  milk 
of  its  mother's ! ' 

"  It  was  at  this  time  that  Eugenic,  to  use  his  own 
expression,  sounded  to  the  bottom  of  the  baptismal 
font,  and  drew  up  the  full  meaning  that  lurked  in 
those  hallowed  waters.  Original  sin  was  the  slimy 
bed  over  which  that  pellucid  flood  was  ever  flowing. 
This  made  him  angry.  What!  all  the  offspring  of 
mankind  —  of  his  own  race  —  born  in  malice  and 
iniquity,  the  children  of  malediction  and  of  the  nature 
of  injustice!  So  he  drew  straight  back  into  —  what 
shall  I  say?—" 

"  Pantheism,"  said  Alban. 

• 
"  I  suppose  so,"  said  Mary,  glancing  at  Atherton. 

"  There  is  a  fanaticism  of  unbelief, "  continued  she, 
"  as  well  as  of  faith,  and  far  more  cruel." 

"  Most  true,"  rejoined  Alban.  "  As  I  have  said 
before  now,  there  were  really  never  but  two  distinct 
kinds  of  religion  in  the  world  —  the  religion  of  Cain 
and  the  religion  of  Abel  —  that  which  denies^  and 
that  which  holds,  man  to  be  fallen,  nature  guilty, 


THE    FOEEST.  191 

and  an   expiation  necessary.      Your  Eugenio   was  a 
Cainite  and  a  Buddhist.     But  go  on." 

"  It  is  as  you  say,  Mr.  Alban.  Eugenio  was 
only  logical.  Weak  and  timid  minds  are  content 
to  hold  an  opinion,  and  not  hold  its  consequences. 
Strong  and  courageous  minds  push  things  to  their  con 
clusions.  Let  me  avoid  any  more  details — " 

"Oh,  no,  they  are  the  most  interesting  part," 
said  Jane. 

"Well,"  said  Mary,  "  I  will  come  down  to  the 
period  when  this  unhappy  mother  died.  It  was  soon 
after  the  birth  of  a  little  boy,  who  did  not  survive 
her.  Even  in  these  heart-touching  circumstances,  the 
cruel  Eugenio,  as  I  must  call  him,  refused  his  wife's 
last  request,  that  he  would  suifer  their  daughter, 
then  about  three  years  old,  to  be  baptized  by  the 
priest  who  attended  her,  and  committed  to  the  Sisters 
of  the  Visitation  to  be  brought  up  in  her  mother's 
faith.  It  was  then,  having  exhausted  herself  in  a 
fruitless  plea,  that  the  dying  mother "-- Mary  paused, 
and  hid  her  face  for  a  moment — "it  was  then  that 
my  mother  said,"  — 

"  Your  mother  !  "  exclaimed  Jane. 

"'Eugene,  I  have  done  all  I  could.  It  is  God's 
will  that  our  child  shall  be  left  to  you,  to  bring  up 
as  you  think  fit.  But  when  she  is  old  enough,  as 


192  THE    FOREST. 

you  say,  to  choose  for  herself,  I  shall  return  and  claim 
her  choice  for  the  Lord.  She  will  leave  your  teaching 
for  that  of  Father  de  Mornay'  --pointing  to  the 
French  confessor  at  her  side — 'and  if  you  persist 
after  that,  —  your  house,  even  in  your  dying  hour, 
for  the  austerities'  —  they  thought  she  mentioned 
some  order ;  Father  de  Mornay  said  it  was  the  Car 
melites,  for  she  rallied  again,  and  added,  hoarsely, 
'I  see  her  in  that  garb,'  —  and  she  described  nearly 
that  of  some  very  severe  nuns ;  but  her  mind  was 
evidently  wandering,  and  soon  after  she  sank  into  a 
quiet  slumber,  from  which  she  never  awoke." 

"A  singular  story,  indeed;  but  you  must  not  let 
it  influence  your  imagination  unduly,  Miss  Mary. 
By  whom  was  it  told  to  you?" 

"Partly  by  a  sister  of  Father  de  Mornay,  who 
also  knew  my  mother.  But  she  was  a  person  of  so 
vivid  and  impressible  an  imagination  that  I  should 
not  quite  credit  all  she  told,  were  it  not  that  some 
circumstances  I  can  confirm,  naturally,  from  my  own 
personal  knowledge.  But  it  is  getting  very  late,  and 
Jane,  I  see,  does  not  like  the  end  of  my  story  so  well 
as  the  beginning.  Had  we  not  better  try  once  more 
to  get  a  little  sleep?" 

"  Certainly,"  said  Alban.  "  We  are  much  obliged 
to  you,  Miss  Mary,  for  your  story." 


THE    FOKEST.  193 

The   girls  whispered,   then    rose   lightly   from   the 
couch,  and  despoiled  it  of  one  of  the  coverlets,  which 
they  doubled,  and  as  if  by  mutual  consent,  spread  on 
the  ground  in  a  convenient  place.     Atherton  faintly 
remonstrated,    but  it  evidently   gave    them    both    so 
much  pleasure,  that  he  could  not  persist  in  refusing 
their  kindness.      The  fire  had  gone  so  far  down  that 
the  heat  was  no  longer  disagreeable;    the  smoke  had 
begun   to  ascend  tranquilly,    which   showed   that  the 
wind  had  changed;   and  a  purer  air  circulated  in  the 
dingy  but  glowing  interior  of  the  hut.     The  trappers, 
the   Indian,    Mrs.    Duncan,    and    Margaret,    had   slept 
profoundly   on   their   hard   bed,    during   all    the    low 
musical  murmur  of  the   young  people's   conversation 
and  Mary's  narrative.      The  young  ladies  waited   till 
Atherton  had  composed  himself  on  the  cot  they  had 
spread  for  him,  and   closed   his   eyes,  and   then   they 
too,  with  a   half-conscious  attention    to   grace   in   the 
manner    of    doing    it,    resumed    their   sisterly   divan. 
In  a  very  short  time,   the  dewy  Power  had  pressed 
all  their  eyelids. 

9 


194  THE    FOREST. 


CHAPTER    XII. 


So  diversely  discoursing  of  their  loves, 
The  golden  sunne  his  glistering  head  'gan  shew, 
And  sad  remembrance  now  the  prince  amoves 
With  fresh  desire  his  voyage  to  pursue. 

Faerie  Q 


IT  was  an  old  Indian  clearing  where  maize  had  rustled, 
and  gourds  had  ripened  in  the  sun  before  the  white 
man's  day.  In  one  direction,  a  quantity  of  red  stubble, 
dotted  with  little,  red-brown  stacks,  indicated  a  patch 
of  buckwheat;  in  another,  blackened  stumps  and  a 
loamy  soil  showed  the  more  recent  invasion  of  fire 
and  axe.  The  whole  was  girded  by  a  forest  abounding 
in  lofty  pines,  except  on  one  -side,  where  a  rapidly 
descending,  and  in  parts  almost  precipitous  bank,  led 
to  the  shore  of  one  of  the  deepest  bays  of  Racket 
Lake,  —  broad  and  blue ;  piercing  the  forest  for  miles ; 
bordered  by  a  silvery  beach  of  fine  white  sand,  and 
bounded,  lakeward,  by  two  high  promontories,  darkly 
crowned  with  pines.  On  one  of  the  loftiest  of  these 


THE    FOREST.  195 

a  pair  of  eagles  watched  the  lake.  At  the  moment  (of 
earliest  dawn)  when  Alban  stepped  upon  the  sand  of 
the  beach,  a  flight  of  wild  ducks  was  coming  down 
the  bay,  from  the  shelter  of  a  reedy  inlet.  The  water 
of  Kacket,  as  its  general  colour  indicated,  was  of  a 
crystal  purity,  and,  notwithstanding  the  coldness  of 
its  temperature,  the  hardy  youth  was  preparing  for  a 
matin  plunge. 

Pierre  was  already  paddling  slowly  up  the  bay, 
throwing  his  fly.  The  long  slender  rod  of  iron- wood, 
light  as  cork  and  flexible  as  whale-bone,  flirred  through 
the  air ;  the  viewless  line  swept  the  surface ;  and 
almost  every  throw  obtained  a  "  rise."  Then  there 
was  bending  of  the  slender  rod,  and  rapid  yet  cautious 
reeling.  In  three  minutes  or  less,  a  beautiful  fellow, 
weighing  from  two  to  three  pounds,  would  be  "gaffed" 
—  perhaps  two  at  a  time. 

"  That  Ingin  has  a  wonderful  fancy  for  that  are 
way  of  fishin',"  observed  Morrell,  who  was  engaged 
in  cleaning  one  of  the  boats.  "  With  a  stiff  pole,  a 
reg'lar  fishin'  line,  and  a  bit  of  ven'son  on  a  hook,  I'd 
have  half  a  bushel  of  them  trout  while  he 's  ketchin' 
a  mess  for  breakfast." 

"But  this  is  the  more  scientific  sport,  Morrell," 
said  Alban,  pausing  in  admiration  to  see  the  Indian's 
skill.  "The  fishing  is  better  here  than  at  Piseco." 


196  THE    FOREST. 

"  Piseco  is  gettin'  spiled." 

"I  wish  I  had  brought  my  rod  down  from  the 
shanty,"  continued  Alban,  whose  enthusiasm  was  get 
ting  excited. 

"Shall  I  run  and  fetch  it?"  asked  Courtney, 
readily. 

"  No,  we  shan't  have  time,  I  'm  afraid." 

"Swim  out  to  the  Ingin  and  take  a  few  throws 
with  his  'n,"  said  Morrell. 

The  temptation,  was  strong,  but  the  youth  glanced 
upward  at  the  bank  over  their  heads,  and  resisted  it. 
He  contented  himself  with  a  quick  dive  and  swim, 
and,  returning  to  the  beach,  resumed  his  clothes. 

The  bronzed  and  blue-kirtled  Indian  noiselessly  and 
gravely  paddled  by  in  his  softly-curved  and  thin  canoe, 
skittering  the  dark  rod  and  viewless  line  with  the  most 
graceful  action  of  his  sinewy,  blue-vested  arm.  A 
large  silver  trout  rises;  away  speeds  the  line;  whirrs 
like  a  pheasant  the  rapid  reel ;  the  slender  rod  bends, 
now  this  way,  now  that ;  now  he  reels  in  beautifully ; 
again  the  speckled  monster  darts  away  in  the  trans 
parent  depths;  again  he  is  drawn  slowly  but  surely 
to  the  surface,  and  Pierre  dexterously  gaffs  him. 

While  he  was  enjoying  his  triumph  in  silence,  and 
preparing  for  another  throw,  another  kind  of  sport, 
and  more  exciting,  unexpectedly  developed  itself.  One 


THE    FOEEST.  197 

of  the  eagles,  whose  eyry  was  built  upon  the  top  of 
the  loftiest  of  the  pines  that  crowned  the  neighbouring 
promontory,  had  been  poising  and  planing  for  several 
minutes  over  the  bay;  sometimes  revolving  in  a  slow 
circle,  then  sweeping  on  like  lightning.  All  at  once, 
as  the  thunderbolt  falls,  he  made  a  frightful,  perpen 
dicular  swoop  that  buried  his  whole  form  under  the 
water,  which  his  mighty  wings  lashed  into  an  instan 
taneous  foam ;  slowly  he  rose  with  a  huge  salmon 
trout  in  his  talons  —  a  monstrous  and  not  passive  prey. 
Then  ensued  a  terrible  conflict.  The  weight  and  mus 
cular  force  of  the  trout,  struggling  in  the  utmost  vio 
lence  of  fear  and  agony,  were  so  great  that  the  powerful 
eagle  could  not  lift  it.  Sometimes  the  bird-king,  with 
enormous  efforts,  raised  the  fish  into  the  air ;  then  the 
terrified  salmon  darted  through  his  own  element,  drag- 
ing  his  relentless  foe  under  the  vexed  and  splashing 
surface;  alternately  they  were  exhausted  and  alter 
nately  victorious ;  the  monarch  of  the  depths  and  the 
monarch  of  the  clouds  fought  alternately  in  water  and 
in  air,  and  neither  could  be  called  victor.  Every 
occupation  was  suspended  to  watch  this  deadly  and 
determined  strife :  the  Indian  left  off  throwing  his  % ; 
the  guides  forgot  their  boats.  At  length  the  eagle, 
exhausted  and  despairing  of  raising  his  prey,  relin- 
auished  his  hold,  and  sullenly  soared  to  his  eyry,  while 


198  THE    FOREST. 

the  blue  surface  of  the  lake  closed  over  his  triumphant 
but  not  unscathed  adversary,  whose  bleeding  sides, 
even  at  the  distance  of  the  spectators,  had  been  plainly 
discernible. 

Atherton  resumed  the  operation  of  dressing,  which 
this  exciting  incident  had  for  some  moments  suspended. 
Nothing,  in  truth,  remained  to  be  done  but  to  assume 
the  waistcoat,  cravat,  and  coat  —  those  poetical  ele 
ments  of  modern  attire,  worn  by  the  most  magnani 
mous  heroes  in  life  and  fiction,  and  which  our  hero, 
for  his  part,  put  on  with  (^as  superb  and  tran^uil^a 
dignity  as  ever  knight  displayed  in  adjusting-corslet 
and  mail. 

"  And  what  is  our  course  to-day,  Morrell  ? "  he 
demanded,  recurring  to  the  more  important  business 
which  devolved  upon  him. 

"Pierre  knows  the  way,  I  reckon.  Neither  Court 
ney  nor  I  was  ever  at  his  village." 

"Nor  no  other  white  man,  I  guess,  unless  it  was 
one  of  their  own  kind  from  the  Canadas,"  said  Duncan, 
who  had  just  joined  the  group.  "Not  with  their  good 
will,  I  mean;  for  the  Patroon  and  I  was  there  by  a 
kind  of  partik'lar  favour,  you  see,  in  consequence  of 
his  bein'  took  sick  when  we  was  campin'  out,  and  our 
fallin'  in  with  one  of  their  parties." 

"I  have  heard,"  said  Alban,  "of  some  of  the  Cath- 


THE    FOREST.  199 

olio  Indians  being  exceedingly  jealous  of  visits  from 
our  people.  They  want  to  keep  out  the  rum,  I  sup 
pose." 

"That's  it,"  said  Duncan,  drily.  "And  the  doc 
trine,  too." 

"But  you  have  been  at  Pierre's  village,  you  say ; 
how  far  is  it  ?  and  what  is  our  course  ?  " 

"  You  keep  down  the  lake  to  Eacket  river,"  replied 
Duncan  ;  "  then  you  carry  the  boats  round  the  Falls  — 
say  a  mile.  Then  you  paddle  down  to  Crotchet  Lake, 
which  you  cross,  and  between  Crotchet  and  Long  Lake 
you  have  two  more  portages  - 

"Why,  this  will  take  all  day!" 

"  You  will  do  it  by  noon,  I  guess,  if  you  are  spry ; 
but  that's  only  the  beginning.  Long  Lake  is  thirty 
miles  long,  you  know ;  but  you  only  go  a  piece  of  it, 
before  you  turn  up  an  inlet,  and  then  you  're  in  for  a 
steady  row  agin  a  powerful  stream,  right  through  the 
thickest  woods  a'most  ever  I  see.  Well,  I  reckon  it 
will  take  you  till  near  sundown." 

"  Another  tedious  —  terribly  tedious  —  day's  work," 
said  Atherton,  looking  at  the  guides.  "I  had  hoped 
we  were  nearer  the  end  of  our  journey." 

"  Take  more  hands  and  do  it  quicker,"  said 
Duncan. 

"ITow   would    that    help   us?"    returned    Alban. 


200  THE    FOEEST. 

"  two  paddles  are  enough  in  these  cockle-shells,"  — 
glancing  at  the  canoes,  of  which  Duncan  had  two. 

"  True,  Mr.  Atherton,  but  at  the  portages  you 
will  lose  less  time  by  having  plenty  of  people  to 
carry  things.  With  four  men  and  three  canoes,  you 
would  walk  round  the  Falls  as  slick  as  a  whistle. 
Or  you  can  take  them  all,  and  my  wife  can  go  too  : 
she  can  paddle  like  a  squaw,  and  carries  first-rate." 

"I  should  like  to  hire  or  buy  one  of  your  canoes," 
said  Alban,  who  had  already  taken  Morrell's  opinion 
on  that  subject;  "but  I  am  afraid  we  should  not  gain 
much  by  additional  hands.  The  fewer  people  we 
have  in  the  boats,  the  lighter  they  will  draw,  you 
know,  Mr.  Duncan." 

"I  don't  know  as  I'd  be  willin'  to  hire  out  one 
of  my  boats,  unless  I  went  with  it,"  replied  Duncan. 
Duncan  had  evidently  made  up  his  mind  to  join 
the  party. 

"What  think  you,  Morrell?"  said  the  young 
master. 

"It  is  not  for  us  to  say,  Mr.  Atherton.  Three 
men  and  two  boats  will  do  as  well  at  the  portages 
as  four  men  with  three." 

;<Yes;  but  we  are  crowded  in  two  boats.  And 
at  the  Falls,  as  Mr.  Duncan  observes,  I  think  it  is 
important  to  have  plenty  of  people  to  carry  things; 


THE    FOREST.  201 

for  I  don't  wish  to  carry  any  thing  myself,  but  my 
gun." 

"  And  now  and  then  a  young  lady,"  said  Morrell. 

"I  trust  that  will  not  be  necessary  to-day,"  an 
swered  Alban  gravely;  "but  it  is  as  well  to  be  pre 
pared.  What  say  you,  Pierre  ? " 

The  Indian  was  dressing  the  trout,  with  a  stroke 
of  his  knife  to  each.  His  impassive  countenance 
indicated  no  interest  in  the  discussion,  but  Atherton 
perfectly  understood  that  he  alone  was  likely  to  take 
amiss  any  augmentation  of  the  number  of  their  party ; 
and  it  appeared  that  in  this  instance  he  would 
have  the  right  to  object ;  Duncan  was  very  probably 
a  neighbour  with  whom  his  tribe  did  not  care  to 
have  intercourse.  In  addition  to  the  account  given 
by  the  trapper  himself,  Alban  remembered  that  before 
they  left  Lake  Pheasant,  Pierre  had  signified  pretty 
plainly  that  another  squaw  (meaning  Jane)  would 
only  encumber  them;  and  that  one  more  guide  was 
all  they  needed.  But  the  Indian's  sagacity  and  pride 
would  not  suffer  him,  the  former  to  doubt  Atherton's 
own  inclination,  or  the  latter,  to  oppose  one  who  was 
sure,  he  had  found,  to  have  his  own  way :  so  he  coin 
cided  apparently  with  the  young  man's  opinion,  by 
saying,  that  "more  canoe  and  more  guide  would 
make  the  way  easier  for  the  young  and  feeble:"  a 

0* 


202  THE    FOREST. 

distant  allusion  to  their  fair  fellow- voyagers,  prompted 
by  Indian  etiquette.  Duncan  seized  the  trout,  and 
ran  up  to  the  cabin  to  expedite  breakfast. 

The  young  and  feeble,  to  whom  Pierre  so  deli 
cately  alluded,  were  all  ready  to  resume  their  journey, 
when  Alban  bade  them  good-morning.  They  break 
fasted  in  the  open  air,  seated  on  logs,  and  Mrs. 
Duncan  gave  them,  as  a  great  treat,  potatoes  baked 
in  the  ashes  to  eat  with  their  trout.  Miss  De  Groot 
spoke  with  nervous  enthusiasm  of  the  wild  scene  at 
Eacket,  and  cabin  life,  but  Jane,  though  seemingly 
in  high  spirits,  was  indignantly  occupied  with  the 
severe  labours  which  Duncan,  it  appeared,  exacted 
of  his  youthful  wife,  and  unmercifully  ridiculed  her 
friend's  raptures.  The  poetry  of  this  life  disappeared, 
according  to  Jane,  when  you  saw  what  a  barbarian 
it  had  made  of  the  trapper. 

"  Do  you  believe,  Alban,  that  he  makes  her  fetch 
a  log  like  that  from  yonder  woods  on  her  shoulders, 
while  the  lazy  brute  saunters  about  doing  nothing! 
Can  you  credit  a  woman  carrying  such  a  thing,  or  a 
man  letting  her?" 

"He  treats  her  like  a  squaw  —  as  he  gives  her 
the  name,"  observed  Alban,  with  a  look  of  disgust. 

"But  every  backwoodsman  is  not  necessarily  so 
brutally  selfish,"  said  Miss  De  Groot. 


THE    FOREST.  203 

"Ah!  you  should  have  heard  the  pretty  con 
trast  Mary  and  I  drew  this  morning  between  our 
host  and  you,"  observed  Jane. 

"Hush!"  said  Miss  De  Groot,  blushing.  "Do 
not  spoil  him." 

"I  arn  certainly  in  danger!"  said  Alban. 

"If  you  had  heard  Miss  De  Groot  say  that  you 
were  the  very  prince  of  cavaliers ! "  pursued  Jane. 

"I  never  said  such  a  thing!"  exclaimed  Mary, 
with  a  warm  and  angry  native  emphasis  on  the  last 
word. 

"  Indeed  you  did  !  How  can  you  tell  such  a  fib !  " 
cried  Jane,  laughing. 

"  I  merely  said  that  Mr.  Alban  had  improved  very 
much  since  I  used  to  know  him,  not  that  he  was 
perfection  yet,"  responded  Mary.  —  "At  least  that 
was  what  I  meant." 

"  You  know  best  what  you  meant,"  retorted  Jane, 
gaily.  "  I  can  only  report  what  you  said." 

"  I  have  only  performed  my  duty,"  said  Atherton. 

"  Half  the  beauty  of  a  noble  action  is  to  be  uncon 
scious  of  it,"  said  Mary. 

"  And  so  you  think  I  am  too  conscious  "  —  Alban 
stopped. 

"  Of  your  noble  actions  ?  "  Jane  finished  for  him, 
and  laughed  again. 


20-4  THE    FOREST. 

"You  both  seem  inclined  to  be  merry  at  my 
expense  this  morning,"  said  Atherton,  flushing  up  to 
the  temples,  but  not  with  ill-nature. 

"  Not  I ! "  exclaimed  Miss  De  Groot,  with  warmth 
again.  She  hesitated,  and  looked  at  Jane. 

"  Pray,  speak  out  I "  said  Jane,  with  a  perfectly 
easy  and  defiant  air.  "  Am  I  laughing  at  Alban  ?  " 

"I  don't  know  at  whom  you  are  laughing,"  said 
her  friend,  "but  I  am  not  laughing  at  any  body  — 
and  certainly  not  at  you,  Mr.  Alban,"  she  added, 
turning  to  him,  ingenuously  —  "to  whom  I  owe  so 
much." 

"  Did  not  I  tell  you  so  ?  "  said  Jane,  with  the  same 
malicious  air.  "  Mary  wishes  to  think  that  your  draw 
ing  her  into  our  boat  last  night  was  an  act  of  heroism 
that  lays  her  under  everlasting  obligations." 

"It  is  the  part  of  a  generous  mind  to  overrate 
benefits,"  said  Alban,  sententiously. 

"  And  to  overpay  them,"  added  Jane. 

"  What  an  independent  life  you  lead  here,  Mr. 
Duncan,"  said  Mary,  abruptly.  "  Mrs.  Duncan  has 
been  telling  me  that  you  raise  your  own  corn  and  veg 
etables,  (maize,  buckwheat,  and  potatoes,  Mr.  Alban,) 
while  for  meat  and  fish,  when  you  need  them,  you 
have  the  forest  and  lake,  crowded  with  delicacies. 
You  need  only  a  little  clothing  — " 


THE    FOREST.  205 

"  It  is  not  quite  a  Paradise ! "  said  Jane,  aside. 

"I  wear  the  skins  of  the  game  I  kill,  ma'am," 
said  Duncan. 

"  Like  Adam  after  the  Fall ! "  cried  Jane,  in  the 
same  tone. 

"  Mrs.  Duncan's  wardrobe,  though  simple,"  con 
tinued  Mary,  with  a  smile,  "comes,  I  suppose,  from 
Albany  or  Saratoga." 

"  Mrs.  Duncan  does  not  attempt  absolutely  to  rival 
Eve ! "  whispered  Jane,  bitterly,  yet  smiling  to  Alban. 
"  The  poorest  woman-slave  must  have  apparel  of  some 
sort." 

"  My  dear  Jane,  what  is  the  matter  with  you  this 
morning  ?  " 

"Why,  you  see,  dear  Alban,''  she  replied,  with  a 
fond  and  at  the  same  time  gay  expression,  that  made 
her  seem  irresistibly  winning,  "it  is  the  first  frank 
laugh  we  have  had  since  we  left  poor  George  St. 
Glair  at  Mr.  Hart's.  I  would  n't  choose  to  spend  my 
life  on  this  wild  clearing,  I  confess,  but  I  am  as  willing 
as  Mary  herself  to  live  in  a  cabin  with  you  1 "  —  And 
she  laughed  again. 

Miss  De  Groot  grew  red  as  fire  at  that,  and  so  did 
Alban.  But  the  breakfast  was  ended,  and  so  ended 
this  singular  conversation,  in  which  feelings  had  been 
betrayed  by  both  the  young  ladies,  that  were  a  perfect 


206  THE    FOKEST. 

enigma  to  our  hero.     Their  characters  seemed  almost   \ 
reversed,  for  Mary  was  timid,  embarrassed,  and  quickly 
disconcerted ;  while  Jane  showed  a  dashing  indepen-    ) 
dence,  and  a  witty,  though  tender,  spirit. 

Atherton  observed  that  the  trapper  took  nothing 
with  him  from  his  cabin,  but  his  rifle  and  axe ;  but 
Mrs.  Duncan  made  up  a  neat  packet,  in  a  bark 
wrapper,  containing,  apparently,  her  entire  wardrobe. 

The  little  fleet  swept  out  into  the  lake,  —  so  black 
and  billowy  the  night  before,  now  smooth  and  blue. 
They  glided  past  an  island  of  pines,  where,  on  the  top 
of  one  of  the  very  highest,  an  osprey  annually  built 
of  boughs  and  grass  her  huge  nest,  and  gave  the  isle 
its  name.  Point  after  point,  islet  after  islet,  was  passed, 
each  opening  a  fresh  perspective  of  woods  and  waters. 
In  one  of  the  bays,  Courtney  thought  he  saw  a  deer's 
head  bobbing  on  the  water,  and  the  rifles  were  all 
prompt  for  service,  but  it  turned  out  to  be  only  a  loon. 
As  they  approached,  the  great  northern  diver  disap 
peared,  to  rise  again  far  away  in  the  lake.  Duncan 
coolly  shot  at  it,  the  cruelty  of  which  Atherton 
somewhat  sharply  reproved,  as  the  flesh  of  the  loon 
is  useless. 

"Never  fear,"  said  the  trapper.  "I've  known 
one  of  them  fellows  dodge  my  rifle  all  day  in  a  lake 
not  bigger  than  a  mill-pond,  compared  to  Eacket." 


THE    FOREST.  207 

"  A  lazy  kind  of  business,"  said  Courtney  to  Mar 
garet,  "  for  a  man  to  be  shooting  all  day  at  a  loon ! " 

"  That 's  pretty  much  what  Iray  Duncan  is  like," 
observed  Morrell  to  Miss  Jane. 

Except  the  number  of  portages,  and  the  distance 
they  had  consequently  to  tramp  through  a  tangled 
forest,  there  was  little  to  distinguish  this  day.  Mrs. 
Duncan,  on  these  occasions,  invariably  took  her  hus 
band's  canoe  over  her  head,  and  carried  it  a  mile  or 
two  (as  the  case  might  be)  of  the  roughest  walking, 
quite  as  a  matter  of  course,  but  to  Jane's  great  disgust. 
Alban  devoted  himself  more  to  Miss  De  Groot  than 
on  the  previous  days,  assigning  her  accident  of  the 
preceding  night  as  an  excuse. 

She  acted  differently  from  the  other  days,  when 
she  had  ever  declined  his  arm,  or  yielded  it  to  Jane. 
She  accepted  his  assistance  now,  with  that  kind  of 
dignity  which  is  half  coquetry.  A  new,  still  kindness 
softened  their  mutual  manner  to-day ;  it  seemed  that 
the  boy  and  girl  revived  in  them ;  the  genial  instinct 
which  their  spiritual  preoccupations,  and  the  intel 
lectual  solitude  to  which  they  both  had  been  con 
demned  for  a  year  past,  had  somewhat  repressed,  had 
sprung  up  afresh ;  their  tones,  their  words,  their  steps 
and  gestures,  reflected  sympathetically  the  spirit  of 
the  wild,  fresh  nature,  whose  mosses  they  crushed, 


208  THE    FOKEST. 

whose  hoar  and  mighty  trunks  stretched  above  them, 
or,  prostrate  beneath  their  feet,  gave  them  an  oblique 
and  slippery  pathway  down  headlong  ravines,  or 
through  briery  thickets,  and  whose  ever-trickling 
waters  steeped  the  elastic  soil,  and  dampened  the  air 
of  the  sunniest  glades. 

It  cannot  be  doubted  that  the  incident  of  the 
evening  before  had  much  to  do  with  these  delicate 
changes.  Alban  had  not  precisely  saved  her  life  by 
any  single  act  of  gallantry,  but  the  general  impression 
remained  that  she  owed  him  a  great  deal,  and,  what 
was  more,  that  he  counted  as  nothing  any  thing  done 
for  her. 

The  more  girl-like  character  —  the  humble,  natural 
susceptibility  which  Mary  thus  showed,  was  not  incon 
sistent  with  her  yielding  to  a  good  deal  of  abstraction, 
and  even  sadness,  when  she  was  alone  in  Pierre's 
canoe.  Alban  could  not  but  notice  it,  and  ascribed 
it  to  thoughts  of  her  father,  whom  she  hoped  to  see 
that  evening.  As  the  Indian  and  Miss  De  Groot  were 
in  advance,  and  she  sat  in  the  stern,  her  back  was 
towards  our  hero ;  but  he  addressed  her  sometimes  on 
purpose  to  make  her  turn ;  or  else,  in  a  bend  of  the 
stream,  he  would  get  a  glimpse  of  her  profile,  and  it 
was  always  shaded,  he  thought,  with  melancholy.  She 
had  lost  her  bonnet  the  night  before,  and  wore  only 


THE    FOEEST.  209 

her  shawl  over  her  head.  Then  he  would  look  back 
to  his  cousin,  who  was  with  Morrell ;  and  considering 
her  face,  which  defied  the  sun  and  his  autumn  foliage 
by  the  roses  of  a  perennial  June,  while  she  threw 
quite  aside  her  thick  green  veil,  and  answered  his 
look  with  a  grateful  smile,  he  pondered  the  relations 
between  the  human  countenance  and  the  character 
of  the  soul  which  we  cannot  see.  The  distribution 
of  the  party  to-day,  in  the  canoes,  was  less  social 
than  heretofore,  but  it  was  a  great  object,  from  the 
frequent  shallowness  of  the  stream,  to  gain  lightness 
of  draught. 

They  reached  Long  Lake  by  the  middle  of  the 
day,  and  took  their  noon-day  repose  on  a  beautiful 
island,  covered  with  a  maple  grove,  the  myriad  leaves 
of  which,  twinkling  in  the  sunlight,  were  either  of 
the  richest  crimson  or  the  brightest  gold.  A  broad, 
sea-like  expanse  of  waters  rolled  at  their  feet;  col 
oured  shores,  hilly,  and  unshorn  of  their  forests, 
stretched  in  endless  perspective  beyond;  while,  still 
more  distant,  in  blue  waves  and  bald  peaks,  rose  and 
sank  along  the  horizon  the  magnificent  outline  of  the 
Adirondack. 

Here  the  men  all  slumbered  away  the  time  of 
waiting,  as  well  they  might,  for  they  had  undergone 
severe  fatigue.  The  hardy  Mrs.  Duncan  and  our 


210  THE    FOREST. 

friend  Margaret  wandered  off  to  seek  some  ripe  nuts ; 
for  the  trees  that  bore  them  were  mingled  with  the 
maples.  Atherton  lay  down  at  a  distance  from  the 
two  young  ladies,  under  a  golden-leaved  maple,  and 
either  slept  or  pretended  to  sleep.  But  whether 
awake  or  asleep,  he  was  out  of  hearing.  The  young 
ladies  were  not  slumberers;  they  were  indeed  dis 
posed  to  chat;  and  as  young  ladies,  but  especially 
when  they  are  rivals,  sometimes  will,  they  talked  at 
first  of  every  subject  but  that  which  was  uppermost 
in  their  hearts. 

The  beauty  of  the  weather,  the  fine  scenery 
through  which  they  had  passed,  the  difficulties  of  the 
forest  path,  if  path  it  could  be  called,  the  prospect  of 
a  fine  afternoon,  and  a  safe  arrival  at  the  Indian 
village,  were  dwelt  upon  in  succession.  These  topics 
were  touched  by  Jane  in  a  light,  cheerful  way,  but 
Mary's  tone,  and  the  expression  of  her  countenance, 
indicated  that  melancholy  preoccupation  of  her  thoughts 
which  we  have  already  noticed.  She  was  ready 
enough  to  talk,  but  it  seemed  to  be  for  the  sake  of 
expelling  what  are  vulgarly  called  "the  blues."  A 
certain  restlessness,  quite  different  from  her  usual 
state,  appeared  to  affect  her. 

"  You  are  not  quite  yourself  to-day,"  said  Jane, 
at  last,  very  kindly,  when  Mary  had  answered  rather 


THE    FOEEST.  211 

at  random.     "You  are   thinking  how  you  may  find 
your  father?" 

"That  is  a  part  of  what  makes  me  —  nervous  —  I 
suppose  I  ought  to  call  it." 

"  It  seems  to  you,  perhaps,  as  if  the  end  of  the 
journey  would  never  come  —  on  account  of  your 
impatience  to  arrive  at  it." 

11  Not  exactly  so.  I  have  enjoyed  the  journey, 
and  dread  its  termination,  as  most  do  the  journey  of 
life.  While  we  are  en  voyage,  its  hardships  have  so 
many  compensations  that  they  become  dear  to  us, 
and  we  cannot  believe  the  joy  and  repose  of  the 
patrie." 

"I  think  we  always  feel  sorry  just  at  the  last, 
when  a  journey  is  over,"  said  Jane. 

"  In  social  journeys  above  all,"  said  Mary,  "  because 
it  snaps  a  bond,  and  we  are  not  sure  it  will  ever 
reunite." 

Here  the  conversation  paused,  from  having  got  to 
border,  at  least,  on  ground  which  they  were  sensitive 
of  treading.  Jane  turned  it  to  the  effect  of  the  sun 
and  air  upon  their  complexions. 

"How  much  Alban  is  tanned!"  said  she. 

"  Burned,  rather,"  replied  her  friend.     "  Such  com 
plexions  as  mine  tan.     Yours  and  his  burn." 
• 

"Am  I  as  much  burnt  as  he  is?" 


212  THE    FOREST. 

"Oh,  dear  no!  Your  cheek  is  just  delicately 
sun-smitten.  It  but  gives  your  hair  a  brighter  gold, 
and  your  dark  blue  eye  a  coquettish  sparkle,  like  a 
country  lass.  I  like  it." 

"  Poor  Alban's  face  is  quite  inflamed,  except 
where  that  downy  brown  beard  of  his  protects  it." 

"It  is— but  I  like  him  better  so." 

"Why?     It  is  surely  not  a  beauty." 

"It  is  manly.  I  remember,  too,  when  his  hands 
were  as  white  as  yours,  but  now  they  are  almost  as 
dark  as  Mr.  Morrell's." 

"And  you  like  that  better  also?" 

"Why  it  is  a  great  deal  manlier  —  don't  you 
think?" 

"Perhaps  it  is;  though  I  was  telling  him  yester 
day  that  he  ought  to  wear  his  gloves,  and  he  said 
they  were  worn  out.  I  offered  to  mend  them,  forget 
ting  that  I  had  neither  needles  nor  thread." 

"Margaret  has  both  at  your  service,"  said  Mary. 
"You  had  better  mend  your  cousin's  gloves,  but  I 
wouldn't  advise  him  to  wear  them  for  the  present." 

"  I  shall  tell  him  how  you  like  his  hands  better 
all  tanned  as  they  are." 

"  Oh,  pray  don't !  It  is  nothing  to  me  what  colour 
his  hands  are  of, "  said  Mary,  hastily. 

Alban's  cousin  smiled  at  this  saying  of  her  friend's. 


THE    FOREST.  213 

When  a  thought  is  in  the  heart  it  will  be  drawn  out 
in  some  way  or  another,  unless  one  is  extremely 
guarded.  The  dissimulation  of  young  ladies  in  regard 
to  certain  subjects  is  as  perfect  as  any  thing  human 
can  be,  yet  their  jealousy  gets  the  better  of  it  now 
and  then. 

"It  is  not  a  sin  by  your  religion  —  is  it?  to 
have  a  preference  about  a  young  man's  hands  being 
white  or  sun-browned  I "  said  Jane,  laughing. 

"  That  depends  on  circumstances  I " 

"  What  circumstances,  for  instance  ?  " 

"  Excuse  me,"  replied  her  friend.  "  My  rules 
always  seem  so  petty  to  you,  that  I  shall  only  scan 
dalize  you  by  stating  them." 

uls  it  not  better  to  have  the  heart  right,  and  so 
act  generously  and  freely,  than  to  be  fettered  by  such 
a  variety  of  particular  rules?"  inquired  Jane.  "It 
seems  so  to  me,  I  confess." 

"I  cannot  be  generous  except  by  submitting  myself 
to  a  rule,  or  else  I  am  just  reckless  of  my  own  happi 
ness  —  as  it  seems  to  me.  Obeying  the  rule  keeps  my 
heart  right,  and  gives  me  perfect  freedom." 

"You  are  such  a  theologian,  Mary,  that  I  see  I 
must  never  venture  on  such  ground  with  you.  You 
use  me  up  at  once." 

"  I  am  no  theologian,"  replied  Mary^ without  taking 


214  THE    FOREST. 

notice  of  the  sarcasm,  "  but  I  Lave  thought  a  great 
deal  about  some  few  things  which  every  body  objects 
to  me  as  wrong  in  my  religion.  For  instance  "  —  she 
looked  up  with  a  fine  expression  —  "to  prefer  others 
to  myself  in  every  thing  that  does  not  concern  my 
salvation,  is  a  rule  -that  frees  me  from  a  thousand 
petty  anxieties,  and  enables  me  —  as  far  as  I  can  keep 
it  —  to  defy  all  the  sophistries  of  self-love  !" 

"  That  is  a  noble  rule ! "  said  Jane,  penetrated. 
"But  who  can  keep  it?" 

"  You  and  I  —  by  God's  grace  !  Ah  !  Jane  !  why 
do  you  not  think  more  seriously  about  the  Catholic 
religion  ?  I  have  been  wishing  to  say  it  all  day,  but 
have  never  found  an  opportunity  before.  Do  not  you 
see  that  your  earthly  happiness  depends  upon  it  ? 
You  love  your  cousin  Alban  —  forgive  my  saying  so 
—  and  he  will  never  marry  a  Protestant." 

"  If  I  loved  him  ever  so  much,"  responded  Jane 
with  spirit,  "  I  would  never  change  my  religion  on 
his  account,  I  promise  you.  Is  that  your  notion  of 
Christian  principle  ?  —  to  change  one's  religion  in 
order  to  get  married !  If  conscience  did  not  prevent 
me,  womanly  pride  would.  Fie,  Mary  !  " 

Jane  turned  away  her  head,  as  if  she  wanted  to 
hear  no  more. 

"  How  you  jump   to  a   conclusion ! "    said   Mary 


THE    FOKEST.  215 

quietly,  as  one  accustomed  to  be  misunderstood.  "  I 
did  not  mean  that  you  should  become  a  Catholic  all 
at  once,  because  you  are  —  unfortunately,  I  think  — 
attached  to  one ;  but  merely  that  you  ought  to  enter 
immediately  upon  a  serious  examination  of  the  religion, 
which  he  has  adopted  from  conviction,  and  is  not  likely 
to  abandon.  Or  if  you  are  so  deeply  prejudiced  against 
it  that  you  cannot  do  this  —  why  the  Christian  principle 
and  womanly  pride  you  spoke  of,  should  both  with 
hold  you,  it  seems  to  me,  from  trying  to  captivate  his 
regard  :  —  for  that  is  to  act  the  temptress  !  " 

"  On  the  contrary,"  returned  Jane,  with  increasing 
displeasure,  "I  have  hoped  all  along  that  Alban's 
affection  for  me  (which  is  not  a  new  thing  by  any 
means)  would  win  him  from  these  strange  ideas,  which 
all  his  true  friends  deplore  as  much  as  I  do." 

"  It  is  a  design  that  I  have  plainly  seen  through," 
replied  Mary,  becoming  excited  in  turn.  "  Yes,  I  saw, 
Jane,  that,  impelled  by  an  affection  which  does  you  no 
discredit,  you  were  using  every  art  of  gentle  fascination 
to  insnare  Alban's  faith.  It  is  just  as  when,  in  the 
early  ages,  some  Pagan  girl,  or  unconverted  Jewess, 
employed  her  charms  to  seduce  some  young  disciple. 
It  might  succeed  with  a  slave  of  the  senses  —  some 
poor  votary  of  woman's  beauty,  already  an  idolater 
in  heart ;  but  not  with  one  who,  young  as  he  is, 


216  THE    FOKEST. 

has  learned  the  great  lesson  of  self-mastery.  Alban 
began  his  career  as  a  Catholic  (let  me  tell  you)  by  a 
glorious  victory  over  a  very  fatal  and  extraordinary 
bewilderment  of  his  senses  and  imagination.  I  never 
knew  —  I  never  could  comprehend  —  until  very  lately, 
how  much  it  must  have  cost  him.  But  believe  me, 
he  whose  first  step  was  to  trample  on  his  passions  by 
renouncing  a  mistress  —  a  bride  —  far  more  dazzling 
to  a  young  man  of  his  disposition  than  any  simple 
girl  like  you  or*  me,  will  never  end  by  surrendering 
his  principles  for  the  sake  of  a  cousin." 

Mary's  lofty  tone  daunted  Jane  for  a  moment,  and 
then  the  blood  of  the  Athertons  boiled  up  in  her 
veins.  The  restraints  of  that  conventional  suavity 
which  the  world  calls  good  breeding  had  been  broken 
through  by  one  rough  truth,  and  she  could  not  sup 
press  her  bitterness. 

"It  will  be  easy  for  Alban  to  resist  my  poor 
charms  when  he  has  yours  to  compare  them  with, 
which  are  superior,  I  acknowledge,  in  every  respect," 
she  said.  "  It  does  not  require  such  an  effort  of  virtue 
to  prefer  a  rich  heiress  to  a  poor  cousin.  The  little 
portion  which  I  had  hoped  would  smooth  the  first 
difficulties  of  his  profession  (for  I  have  never  thought 
of  myself  first,  I  assure  you)  is  too  trifling  to  be  offered 
in  competition  with  your  future  estates,  I  know.  I 


THE    FOREST.  217 

have  no  art,  either,  but  just  to  love  him,  (as  I  have 
done  from  the  time  we  were  children  together,)  and 
to  betray  my  affection.  You  love  him,  too,  but  proudly 
and  wisely  hide  it.  Men,  especially  at  Alban's  age, 
prize  the  heart  which  they  must  be  at  pains  to  win, 
while  they  despise  that  which  they  think  is  already 
theirs.  Nay,  never  deny  that  you  love  him.  You 
may  deceive  him  by  your  haughty  self-command,  but 
not  a  woman  and  a  rival,"  concluded  Jane,  passion 
ately. 

"  Nay,  do  not  be  angry  with  me,  dear  Jane.  Re 
member  that  I  am  two  years  younger  than  you.  Can 
/  be  your  rival  ?  " 

"You  are  as  superior  to  me  in  self-control  as  in 
every  thing  else,"  cried  Jane,  bursting  into  tears. 
"But  it  is  the  most  insulting  charge,  that  I  wish  to 
captivate  Alban's  senses.  I  cannot  bear  it  with  calm 
ness.  To  think  that  you,  with  whom  I  have  been 
associating  as  a  friend,  should  impute  to  me  such  a 
thing !  Such  a  degrading  idea  I  "  And  Jane  hid  her 
face  in  her  hands. 

"  My  dear  Jane,  you  misunderstood  me.  When  I 
spoke  of  your  insnaring  Alban,  I  did  not  mean  by 
any  unmaidenly  arts,  but  merely  by  — modest  kind 
ness,  such  as  I  would  not  myself  scruple  to  show, 
were  I  really  your  rival." 

10 


218  THE    FOREST. 

"  We  will  not  quarrel  about  my  cousin,"  said  Jane 
with  dignity. 

"  God  forbid  I  " 

An  awkward  silence  followed  this  burst.  Both 
felt  themselves  somewhat  aggrieved.  Jane,  particu 
larly,  had  the  air  of  one  conscious  of  being  the  injured 
party.  She  gazed  very  steadily  at  the  blue  peak  of 
the  remote  Tahawus.  Her  delicate  profile  could  well 
express  resentment.  Mary  was  the  first  to  speak.  It 
was  to  beg  Jane's  pardon  for  having  hurt  her  feelings. 

"I  am  very  sorry,"  said  she.  "Say  you  forgive 
me,  for  I  retract  every  word  that  has  offended  you." 

Jane  could  not  hold  out  against  that.  The  two 
maidens  kissed  each  other,  and  perhaps  felt  a  more 
sincere  mutual  kindness  than  before.  The  ice  of  their 
rivalhood  was  broken.  It  was  a  kind  of  luxury  to 
Jane  to  be  able  to  speak  of  her  feelings. 

"  I  am  mortified,"  said  she,  "  to  have  betrayed  my 
jealousy;  but  do  not  you  think,  Mary,  that  you  also 
were  a  little  jealous  ?  " 

"  I  had  reason,  if,  as  you  say,  I  am  in  love  with 
your  cousin.  But  you  mistake  me  there.  There  was 
enough  of  human  and  female  infirmity  in  what  I  said, 
I  acknowledge ;  but  no  jealousy." 

"  You  are  always  mistress  of  your  secret,"  said 
Jane.  "But  indeed  you  ought  not  to  blame "  —  Mary 


THE    FOREST.  219 

had  not  blamed  it— "my  affection  for  Alban.     It  is  " 
one,"  added  she,  "  that  has  grown  with  my  growth  and 
strengthened  with  my  strength.     It  j^egan  when  I  was 
only  thirteen.     We  were  both  converted  in  the  very 
same  revival  of  religion,  and  on  the  same  day." 

"THare  say,"  said  Mary,  with  a  delightful  smile. 
"  Did  you  use  to  talk  of  love  in  those  days  ?  " 

"  Never  openly  to  each  other,  you  know.  We 
would  have  been  ashamed.  But  we  were  always 
teased  about  each  other,  and  neither  of  us  ever  denied 
it." 

"I  dare  say  not,"  replied  Mary,  with  a  sympa 
thizing  laugh. 

It  rung  low  and  silvery  along  the  shore.  Alban 
heard  it  under  his  maple  canopy,  and  rose  on  an 
elbow.  He  looked  at  his  watch,  and  getting  up  forth 
with,  came  to  them  over  the  rustling  golden  leaves 
which  thickly  strewed  the  ground. 

•'  You  seem  to  be  having  a  merry  time,  ladies." 

"Jane  has  been  telling  me  about  your  youthful 
days,  sir." 

"  Has  she  told  you  that  I  used  to  believe  she  was 
made  of  something  finer  than  clay,  so  that  I  was 
surprised  at  her  condescending  to  support  her  exist 
ence  in  the  same  manner  that  I  did,  and  should  not 
have  been  astonished  had  she  put  forth  a  pair  of 


220  THE    FOREST. 

wings  some  sunshiny  morning,  and  departed  from  this 
dull  planet?" 

"Something  lij^e  that  I  might  infer,"  said  Mary. 

"  Fie  !  "  cried  Jane. 

"  Well,  allow,"  said  Alban,  with  a  look  at  the  latter, 
which  caused  her  to  turn  away,  "  allow  —  that  there 
is  unusually  little  to  disenchant  me  now  of  my  boyish 
illusion." 

"It  would  be  easy  to  dream  on,  I  should  think," 
said  Miss  De  Groot. 

"  As  easy  as  talking ;  but  at  present  it  is  time  to 
prosecute  our  journey.  We  have  rested  here  an  hour 
and  a  half. " 

And  the  young  man  helped  his  cousin  and  Miss 
De  Groot  down  the  bank,  and  into  their  canoes,  with 
a  reverential  tenderness  that  was  nearly  equal  towards 
them  both  ;  but  if  there  was  a  difference,  he  was  more 
affectionate  with  his  cousin,  which  was  natural,  and 
more  timid  with  her  friend. 


THE    FOKEST.  221 


CHAPTER   XIII. 


Just  as  the  sun  went  down,  they  heard  a  murmur  of  voices, 
And  in  a  meadow  green  and  broad,  by  the  bank  of  a  river, 
Saw  the  tents  of  the  Christians,  the  tents  of  the  Jesuit  Mission. 


AT  about  sundown,  as  Duncan  had  predicted,  the 
travellers  reached  the  Indian  village.  Far  apart  stood 
the  low  cabins,  roofed  with  gray  bark,  and  not  many  in 
number.  The  clearing  was  of  considerable  extent,  laid 
out  in  dry,  yellow  maize-fields,  interspersed  with  many 
a  crimson  copse,  and  broken  by  the  bends  of  a  stream, 
half  bush-hidden,  that  reflected  the  gleam  of  the  west 
ern  sky,  piled  to  the  zenith  with  the  most  brilliant 
cirro-stratus.  Its  long  deep-purple  lines,  and  feathery 
floating  extremities  of  brightest  pink,  lay  on  a  clear 
luminous  depth  of  soft  orange,  pale  green,  and  heav 
enly  blue. 

The  party  moved  on  admiringly,  afoot,  along  a 
narrow  path.  They  crossed  a  prairie,  with  half-wild 
horses  cropping  its  flowery  acres ;  then  passed  through 


222  THE    FOREST. 

a  grove  of  mighty  cedars ;  and  came  upon  a  sort  of 
common,  round  which  were  irregularly  grouped  a  num 
ber  of  huts,  having  log  walls  and  bark  roofs,  with 
some  wigwams  wholly  of  bark,  imbowered  more  or 
less  among  fruit  trees  and  hedges  of  elder.  There 
were  some  yellow  sunflowers,  turning  their  great  golden 
faces  to  the  west ;  and  the  bark  roofs  were  spread  with 
yellow  corn  and  gourds.  One  of  the  houses  was  larger 
and  loftier  than  the  rest.  It  was  built  of  logs  with  the 
bark  on,  and  had  projecting  eaves.  The  peak  of  the 
gable  was  surmounted  by  a  cross,  in  whose  gray  arms 
twined  the  highest  tendrils  of  a  crimson-leafed  vine 
that  crept  over  one  side  of  the  forest  church  and  was 
trained  along  its  roof. 

Pierre  stopped  at  the  high,  open  door  of  this  edifice, 
and  beckoned  them  all  to  enter.  They  had  no  choice, 
for  he  alone  of  the  party  knew  where  Mr.  De  Groot 
was  to  be  found.  It  seemed  that  the  whole  population 
of  the  village  was  gathered  in  the  church.  The  men 
.were  on  one  side  and  the  squaws  on  the  other.  The 
travellers  silently  distributed  themselves  according  to 
their  sex.  Jane  knelt  down  by  Mary,  her  modesty, 
despite  certain  scruples,  not  permitting  her  to  stand 
alone  in  a  crowd  of  worshippers. 

The  principal  light  came  in  at  the  door,  although 
there  were  small  windows,  or  rather  apertures,  in  the 


THE    FOEEST.  223 

walls  close  under  the  roof;  but  the  projecting  eaves 
interfered  with  the  light  from  this  source.  At  the 
further  end,  in  a  recess,  was  the  altar,  on  which  the 
great  candles  were  already  lit.  They  appeared  to  be 
real  wax,  burned  with  peculiar  brightness,  and  diffused 
a  fine  fragrance.  The  material  of  the  altar  appeared 
to  be  cedar.  .  It  was  vested  in  front  with  red  silk  highly 
enriched  with  wampum.  Its  plain  but  spotless  linen 
hung  down  pure  and  white  at  each  end  to  the  platform. 
The  great  number  of  smaller  candles  of  a  bluish-white 
wax,  in  wooden  candlesticks  of  a  graceful  design,  was 
very  observable.  They  were  not  only  ranged  on  the 
back-altar,  but  on  brackets  against  the  cedar  wainscot- 
ting  of  the  sanctuary,  and  calculated,  when  lighted,  to 
produce  a  brilliant  illumination.  The  tabernacle  was 
evidently  of  cedar,  profusely  carved,  and  very  dark, 
as  if  with  age.  A  lamp  of  Indian  pottery,  suspended 
from  the  roof  by  a  cord  of  bark,  burned  before  it. 
The  spacious  sanctuary  was  enclosed  by  a  light  rail, 
and  spread  with  a  beautiful  mat  of  reeds.  Most  im 
pressive  and  inspiring  was  the  sacred  decorum  of  the 
whole,  to  the  travellers  just  emerging  from  the  rude 
forest. 

The  swarthy  congregation  were  praying  in  silence ; 
but  in  a  minute  or  so  after  the  entrance  of  the  trav 
ellers,  a  side-door  opened,  and  twelve  Indian  boys, 


224  TfiE    FOREST. 

in  red  cassocks  and  snow-white  surplices,  came  out,  two 
and  two,  and  genuflecting  regularly,  stood  in  order  on 
this  side  and  that.  Last  of  all  came  a  priest  in  surplice 
and  stole,  the  berretta  on  his  head,  and  a  book  in  his 
hand.  They  knelt ;  the  whole  congregation  made  the 
sign  of  the  cross,  and  the  priest  intoned  the  kyrie 
eleison.  In  a  moment  the  chapel  resounded  with  the 
litany.  It  was  a  full  and  very  loud,  but  singularly 
melodious,  chorus.  The  two  sexes  answered  each  other, 
and  the  voices  of  the  women  were  very  sweet. 

At  the  end  the  priest  read  a  number  of  French 
prayers  in  a  distinct  voice,  and,  while  he  was  so  doing, 
four  of  the  surpliced  Indian  boys  took  long  reeds  and 
lighted  all  the  rest  of  the  candles.  The  sanctuary  was 
a  blaze  of  light,  for  every  one  of  the  smaller  candle 
sticks  was  a  triple  branch.  The  cope  was  laid  on  the 
priest's  shoulders.  Amid  the  solemn  singing  of  0 
Salutaris  by  all  the  people  together,  the  remonstrance  — 
a  large  one  of  silver  gilt  —  stood  upon  the  altar  amid 
the  starry  lights.  Then  the  men  and  women  sang  not 
Tantum  ergo  only,  but  the  whole  Pange  lingua,  in 
alternate  verses.  Now  the  strain  was  wild,  profound 
—  a  deep,  yet  not  harsh  bass  —  a  sea  of  male  voices ; 
now  it  was  high,  bird-like,  yet  open  and  sweet  —  the 
choir  of  women.  Meanwhile  incense  was  offered  to 
the  Adorable.  The  white  veil  was  laid  on  the  priest's 


THE    FOKEST.  225 

shoulders  over  the  stiff  and  stately  cope ;  there  was  a 
hush ;  — 

"Panem  de  codo  prczstitisti  eis,"  sung  the  priest 
alone,  in  a  thrilling  voice. 

"  Omne  dekctamentum  in  se  habentem,"  answered 
the  entire  swarthy  congregation,  like  the  fall  of  many 
waters  in  a  forest. 

And  now  all  bow  before  the  LORD  Himself  in 
the  hands  of  His  servant,  while  JESUS,  the  Eternal 
Pontiff  of  the  Church,  signs  them  from  the  Throne 
of  God.  Oh,  blessed  welcome  of  the  pilgrims  I 

As  soon  as  Benediction  was  over,  Pierre  rose, 
and  spoke  by  signs  to  a  very  old  and  decrepit-looking 
Indian,  with  long,  white  hair  that  hung  like  a  mat 
upon  his  shoulders.  Having  received  an  answer,  he 
beckoned  Alban  and  Miss  De  Groot  to  follow  him. 

"Shall  I  come,  too?"  whispered  Jane,  for  she 
observed  that  Pierre  was  advancing  towards  the 
altar. 

"Of  course,"  answered  Mary.  "You  will  not 
desert  me  now." 

The  congregation  made  way  for  them  courteously. 
The  Indian,  Alban,  and  Miss  De  Groot  bent  the 
knee  in  front  of  the  altar,  and  Jane,  who  came  last, 
was  ashamed  in  this  company  where  all  believed, 
and  with  all  eyes  bent  upon  her,  not  to  do  like  the 

10* 


226  THE    FOREST. 

rest,  although  in  her  heart  she  feared  it  was  idolatrous. 
She  tried  to  make  a  little  prayer  to  the  God  who  is 
in  Heaven,  and  thought  of  Naaman  bowing  down  in 
the  House  of  Eimmon.  But  Mary,  overcome  by  a 
mixture  of  gratitude  and  fear,  sank  on  both  knees  at 
the  low  rail,  and  touched  her  forehead  to  the  step, 
kissing  the  ground.  So  they  entered  a  crowded  little 
sacristy,  where  the  Indian  boys  were  unvesting,  and 
Pierre  was  kneeling  for  the  blessing  of  Father  Smith. 

"  My  father,  sir  ? "  said  Mary,  extending  her 
hand.  "  How  is  he  ?  " 

"Thank  God,  my  dear  child,  he  is  somewhat 
better,  we  hope,  though  not  altogether  free  from 
danger.  Your  coming,  I  trust,  will  be  life  to  him. 
This  is  Mr.  Atherton,  unless  I  mistake,  though  I 
should  hardly  have  known  him,  if  he  had  not  been 
with  you,  my  daughter.  And  I  am  glad  to  see  that 
you  have  had  companions  of  your  own  sex." 

"  This  young  lady,"  said  Mary,  "  is  a  relative  of 
Mr.  Atherton's,  who  has  kindly  accompanied  me  for 
the  sake  of  the  decorum  which  is  dear  to  us  both." 

"May  God  reward  her!"  said  Father  Smith,  with 
a  low  bow  to  Jane.  "  Your  father  is  in  our  humble 
presbytery,  where  an  apartment,  such  as  it  is,  shall 
be  found  for  your  friend  and  yourself,  and  our  good 
Margaret,  of  course.  You  can  come  in  now,  and  I 


THE    FOREST.  227 

will  prepare  your  father  to  see  you.  You  will  find 
him  much  changed,  Miss  De  Groot.  Our  way  lies 
across  this  garden." 

The  sacristy  door  opened  into  a  vegetable  and 
flower  garden  of  some  extent.  It  was  regularly 
planted  with  fruit  trees,  currant  bushes,  gooseberries, 
and  some  flowering  shrubs.  A  few  autumn  flowers 
were  still  in  bloom.  Beyond,  at  the  extremity  of  a 
grass-grown  walk,  was  a  long  log-house  of  one  story, 
having  very  small  glazed  windows.  It  was  partly 
screened  by  a  row  of  mountain-ash,  hanging  out  its 
bright  red  berries.  In  the  opposite  direction,  under 
the  continued  sweep  of  the  cedar  grove,  was  a  burying 
ground,  with  a  cross  at  the  head  of  every  grave.  In 
the  dim  light  and  distance  this  could  hardly  be 
descried. 

They  passed  along  the  grass-grown,  gravelled 
walk,  two  and  two,  the  priest  and  Miss  De  Groot 
leading  the  way. 

"I  am  so  glad  to  find  you  here,  Father  Smith," 
said  Mary,  with  a  face  all  radiant.  "  It  was  so  unex 
pected." 

"  I  as  little  expected,  when  sent  by  the  Provincial 
to  visit  this  ancient  mission,  that  I  should  find  your 
father  here,  and  so  soon  have  the  pleasure  of  welcom 
ing  yourself." 


228  THE    FOREST. 

"  God  sent  you,  sir,  not  the  Provincial,"  said  Mary, 
smiling  with  sweetness  and  gaiety. 

"Well,  my  dear  child,  that  is  always  true,  you 
know,"  said  Father  Smith,  laughing,  and  in  his  most 
foreign  accent. 

"  But  what  an  invasion  of  your  house  1 "  exclaimed 
Mary,  checking  herself. 

"Say  nothing  about  that,"  rejoined  the  mission 
ary,  turning  round  to  her,  with  a  slight,  graceful, 
still  foreign  gesture.  "  The  house,  as  I  told  your 
father,  is  yours."  —  Again  that  cheerful  laugh. 


THE    FOREST.  229 


CHAPTER   XIV. 

Now  is  the  day  departing,  and  the  whole  wood,  like  the  air,  imbrowned 
with  shadows,  when  a  new  road,  with  a  name  most  acceptable  at  such  an 
hour,  presents  a  gentle  slope,  descending  into  a  vale. 

The  Road  of  Hospitality. 


AN  Indian  girl  —  whose  straight  black  hair,  passing 
behind  her  large,  well-formed  ears,  and  filled  withered 
flowers,  the  latest  of  the  season,  hung  down  below 
her  waist — received  them  at  the  door  of  the  presbytery. 
She  had  ear-rings,  and  an  immense  necklace  of  wampum 
and  silver  beads,  from  which  depended  a  huge  silver 
cross.  Her  under  dress  consisted  of  a  skirt  of  dark  blue 
broadcloth,  reaching  a  little  below  the  knee  and  beauti 
fully  worked  with  coloured  beads,  and  of  a  short,  loose 
tunic  of  bright-red  calico,  with  a  narrower  border  of  the 
same  rich  work.  A  large  blanket,  or  e-yose,  of  blue 
cloth,  the  graceful  peplum  of  the  ancients,  embroidered 
like  the  skirt,  was  thrown  over  all,  and  fell  in  fine  folds 
to  her  feet.  Leggins  of  scarlet,  and  tawny  moccasins, 
gay  with  bead-work,  completed  her  attire. 


230  THE    FOREST. 

The  room  into  which,  she   received  them  was  of 
considerable  dimensions  for  a  log  cabin.     It  occupied 
the  whole  depth,  and  was  open  to  the  roof.     Two  small 
windows   of  a  single  sash  lighted  it,   and   there  was 
another  door  leading  into  the  open  air,  opposite  to  that 
by  which   they  entered.      A  table   of  dark   wood,  a 
dresser  of  cedar,  ranged  with   earthenware   and   tins, 
three  or  four  chairs  of  wicker-work,  and  as  many  large 
rush  mats,  constituted  the  furniture.     At  one  end  a 
chimney  of  roughly-treated   stone  projected   into   the 
apartment,  and  there  was  a  good  fire  burning,  which 
already  gave  more  light  than  entered  from  without. 
At  each  end  there  seemed  to  be  a  room  beyond  for 
sleeping.     Such  was  in  fact  the  arrangement  of  the 
house  and   the   extent  of  its   accommodations.      The 
Indian  girl  conducted  the  young  ladies  and  Margaret 
to  one  of  the  side-rooms.     It  was  not  so  spacious  as 
the  principal  apartment,  from  which  it  was  separated 
by  a  log  partition,  which  had  once  evidently  been  the 
wall  of  the  house.     It  had  also  two  windows,  one  on 
each  side,  and  a  door  leading  into  the  open  air.     The 
furniture  consisted  of  a  couple  of  wicker  chairs,  a  light 
table  of  bark,  placed  under  a  small  looking-glass,  and 
a  large  mattress,  composed  of  layers  of  matting,  and 
raised  about  a  foot  above  the  floor  on  a  bedstead,  which 
it  entirely  concealed.     An  additional  seat  was  afforded 


THE    FOREST.  231 

by  a  thick  mat  laid  on  a  large  cedar  chest.  Fixed 
against  the  wall  over  the  bed  was  a  wooden  crucifix, 
on  which  Mary's  eyes  immediately  fastened.  Under 
it,  on  a  plain  bracket,  stood  a  small,  blue  earthen  vase, 
and  on  either  side  was  a  coloured  print  of  coarse  execu 
tion  —  the  Sacred  Heart  of  Jesus,  and  the  Sacred  Heart 
of  Mary. 

The  young  squaw  intimated  to  them,  in  a  mixed 
dialect  of  broken  French  and  English,  that  this  was  to 
be  their  sleeping  apartment. 

She  then  laid  aside  her  mantle,  and  proceeded  in 
silence,  while  the  young  ladies  gladly  threw  themselves 
into  the  chairs,  to  open  the  cedar  chest,  whence  she 
took  some  bed-linen,  with  which  she  laid  the  mattress, 
and  also  enveloped  a  long  bolster  that  lay  at  the  head. 
A  magnificent  white  blanket,  which  she  brought  to 
them  first  to  admire,  was  next  laid  on,  and  last  a  thin 
spread  of  bright  calico. 

Jane  could  not  contain  an  expression  of  delight  at 
the  prospect  of  sleeping  once  more  between  a  pair  of 
sheets.  But  neither  could  help  smiling  when  the 
apparatus  for  ablution  was  produced  —  a  dark-blue 
basin,  holding  about  a  quart  of  water,  and  an  earthen 
jug  of  equal  capacity,  which  the  young  Indian  set 
upon  the  bark  table  with  an  air  that  said,  "  Behold 
how  we  also  understand  the  ways  of  civilized  life !  " 


232  THE    FOREST. 

Meanwhile,  Margaret,  at  a  nod  from  her  young 
mistress,  had  assisted  the  Indian  girl  in  laying  the  bed. 
The  latter  had  appeared  to  take  no  notice  of  this, 
bat  she  now  approached  Miss  De  Groot  and  asked  if 
"  Elle"  —  pointing  to  Margaret — would  require  a 
separate  couch.  When  Mary  replied  in  the  affirma 
tive,  provided  it  were  not  too  inconvenient,  the  young 
squaw  beckoned  to  Margaret  to  follow  her,  and  made 
the  latter  herself  bring  in  one  of  the  large  thick  mats 
from  the  principal  apartment,  and  lay  it  in  a  corner. 
She  seemed  to  think  this  was  sufficient,  and  looked 
for  a  moment  displeased  when  Mary  asked  if  there 
was  no  "Unge"  for  "elle;"  however,  she  brought  out 
some  —  a  single  large  sheet  —  which  she  gave  into 
Margaret's  hands  to  arrange  for  herself.  When  Mar 
garet,  without  a  word,  had  laid  it  double,  and  had 
placed,  by  her  lady's  advice,  her  cloak  at  the  head  for 
a  pillow,  the  young  Indian,  who  observed  Miss  De 
Groot  narrowly,  produced  a  blanket  without  being 
asked,  and  finally  a  large  piece  of  thin  calico  for  a 
coverlet.  By  this  time  it  was  almost  dark,  and  their 
swarthy  but  handsome  hostess  went  out,  returning  pres 
ently  with  a  candle  of  the  same  bluish- white  wax  of 
which  the  lights  in  the  chapel  were  formed.  The  can 
dlestick  was  beautifully  carved  in  a  dark  reddish  wood. 
At  the  same  time  she  announced  to  Miss  De  Groot 


THE    FOREST.  233 

that  her  father  was  now  ready  to  see  her,  and  Mary 
rose  quickly,  and  followed  trembling. 

Mr.  De  Groot  was  lying  in  the  room  on  the  op 
posite  side  of  the  larger  apartment  before  described. 
Although  prepared  for  an  alteration,  Mary  was  much 
shocked  at  his  appearance.  It  announced  one  on  the 
verge  of  the  grave.  Extreme  emaciation  and  a  corpse- 
like  pallor  were  less  ominous  than  the  restless  eye  of 
unabated  disease.  But  at  least  he  was  surrounded 
by  the  cleanliness  and  comfort  so  necessary  to  the 
sick.  Father  Smith  had  warned  her  that  excitement 
as  well  as  bodily  movement  was  injurious  to  him ;  she 
restrained,  therefore,  her  emotion,  kissed  him  calmly, 
and  said  how  thankful  she  was  to  have  reached  him 
in  safety. 

"You  came  here  alone,  Mary?" 

"  No,  sir j  Mr.  Alban  Atherton  accompanied  us  from 
Lake  Pheasant,  where  we  met  him  with  a  party." 

"Atherton!"  exclaimed  her  father.  "He  came 
with  you  and  Margaret  through  the  forest !  A  young 
man  with  two  girls !  and  an  Indian  guide ! " 

"  My  dear  father,  a  young  lady  —  a  cousin  of  Mr. 
Alban's  —  also  accompanied  us,  and  is  now  here." 

"  How  old  is  that  young  lady  ?  " 

"  A  year  or  two  older  than  myself.  " 

"  Three  girls  here !  what  are  we  to  do  with  them  ?  " 


234  THE    FOREST. 

said  her  father,  impatiently.  "  I  am  glad  Atherton  is 
come ;  he  will  be  of  more  service  to  me  than  twenty 
girls.  This  cousin  of  his  in  particular  can  be  nothing 
but  an  incumbrance.  Why  did  you  let  her  come? 
I  thought  you  had  more  sense." 

"  I  was  influenced,  sir,  by  the  motives  of  propriety, 
^  which  you  yourself  suggested  just  now." 

"  Why  does  not  Atherton  come  in  to  see  me  ?  " 
asked  her  father,  querulously. 

She  called  Alban,  who  was  in  the  next  room.  Mr. 
De  Groot  received  him  with  coldness,  yet  seemed  less 
irritable  in  his  presence.  He  grew  calm  at  once,  and 
listened  patiently  to  what  Father  Smith  said  of  the 
goodness  of  God  in  sending  him  his  daughter  and 
young  friend  to  tend  his  sick  bed.  Together  they 
would  be  able,  by  relieving  each  other,  to  give  all 
the  assistance  the  invalid  required,  which  was  highly 
desirable,  as  his  own  time  was  much  occupied  in 
administering  to  the  spiritual  wants  of  the  people. 
Just  then  the  old  Indian  with  the  huge  mat  of  white 
hair  depending  to  his  shoulders  —  the  same  to  whom 
Pierre  had  spoken  in  the  chapel  —  came  slowly  in  and 
silently  took  his  seat  by  the  bedside.  Mr.  De  Groot 
extended  his  wrist  and  the  old  man  felt  the  pulse.  It 
was  the  physician.  Father  Smith  assured  Miss  De 
Groot  and  Alban  that  he  was  a  very  skilful  one,  and 


THE    FOREST.  235 

not  unacquainted  with  the  civilized  art  of  medicine. 
But  for  old  Vincent's  care  he  did  not  think  that  Mr. 
De  Groot  would  now  be  living. 

"  He  is  the  father  of  Pierre,"  said  the  missionary, 
"  and  the  grandfather  of  the  Indian  girl  who  received 
you  here,  and  who  is  Pierre's  daughter.  They  have 
the  care  of  the  presbytery  in  the  absence  of  a  priest, 
and  their  own  cabin  is  not  distant.  Madeleine  will 
prepare  your  meals,  wash  your  clothesv  and  perform 
every  office  of  a  servant  without  considering  herself 
one  in  any  respect.  I  observe  that  she  is  already 
getting  ready  your  supper." 

"  And  where  are  our  guides  ?  "  said  Alban. 

"They  brought  your  traps  here  themselves,  and 
I  requested  Pierre  to  take  care  of  the  men.  There 
was  a  woman  too,  I  think.  They  will  be  hospitably 
entertained,  do  not  doubt  it." 

After  a  little  time,  Madeleine  summoned  them  to 
partake  of  the  repast  which  she  had  prepared,  and 
Margaret,  whom  Mr.  De  Groot  showed  lively  pleasure 
at  seeing,  came  in  to  pay  her  respects  to  her  master. 

"  Go,  eat  your  supper,"  said  he,  when  Mary  seemed 
disposed  to  remain.  "  Margaret  will  stay  with  me." 

"Let  me  give  you  two  rales  for  your  guidance," 
said  the  missionary,  as  they  entered  the  principal 
room,  and  addressing  Miss  De  Groot: — "two  rules, 


236  THE    FOKEST. 

do  you  understand?"  —  counting  them  upon  .his 
fingers.  "Yield  to  your  father's  wishes  in  every 
thing,  and  bo  cheerful.  He  is  a  great  deal  letter :  —  do 
you  understand  ?  " 

"Yes,  sir!" 

They  sat  in  wicker  chairs  round  an  oaken  table 
lighted  with  wax  candles  in  carved  candlesticks.  The 
fare  was  simple,  but  good  and  abundant :  white  bread, 
hoe-cake,  hominy,  butter,  honey,  maple  syrup,  baked 
apples,  dried  moose-flesh  and  venison,  a  few  trout, 
and  foaming  mugs  of  milk  fresh  from  the  cow.  The 
tears  stood  in  Jane's  eyes  at  a  sight  which  betokened 
civilization  indeed.  She  felt  that  they  were  not 
savages,  though  Indians  and  Catholics.  She  stood 
in  no  danger  of  either  scalping  or  worse;  and  she 
need  not  mind  the  circumstance  .-that-net  even  the 
door  of  their  bedroom,  which  opened  upon  a  wood 
and  river,  possessed  any  other  security  than  a  wooden 
latch.  Alban  inquired  if  the  candlesticks  were  carved 
by  the  Indians. 

"It  was  done  by  a  missionary,  a  hundred  years 
ago,"  said  Father  Smith;  —  "one  of  our  Fathers,  of 
course.  He  seems  to  have  done  it  all  with  a  common 
penknife.  The  tabernacle,  which  you  may  have 
observed,  and  which  is  really  a  very  curious  affair, 
was  also  his  work.  The  good  father  must  have  had 


THE    FOKEST.  237 

a  particular  genius  for  it,  I  think.  Certainly  he  has 
contributed  very  much  to  the  beauty  of  the  chapel." 

"  This  is  a  beautiful  spot,"  said  Alban. 

"  But  for  sin,  which  intrudes  every  where,  it  would 
be  a  paradise;  and,  by  the  mercy  of  God,  sin  is 
partly  banished.  Certainly  there  are  some  holy  souls 
among  these  people.  Their  outside  is  dark,  but  the 
interior  is  white  and  clean." 

"  Have  they  a  priest  regularly  ?  "  asked  Mary. 

"  They  are  visited  somewhat  irregularly,  but  they 
never  fail  to  assemble  on  Sundays  and  Festivals  to 
sing  the  choir  part  of  the  Mass,  when  one  of  their 
number  reads  the  Mass  prayers ;  and  also  for  Yespers ; 
besides  having  a  daily  office  of  Litanies  and  Hymns, 
for  which  they  meet  in  the  chapel,  as  you  have  wit 
nessed  to-night.  They  take  great  pleasure  in  it. 
There  have  been  attempts  to  convert  them  by  Prot 
estants  of  various  kinds,  but  without  success.  Their 
answer  to  all  such  proposals  is  simple :  that  they  like 
their  religion,  and  do  not  wish  to  change  it." 

"  I  was  not  aware  till  you  spoke  just  now  of  '  our 
fathers,'  that  you  were  a  Jesuit,  Father  Smith,"  said 
Alban. 

Jane,  who  had  not  perceived  the  inference,  started 
so  that  Mary  could  not  help  laughing. 

"  This  young  lady  is  a  Protestant,  Father  Smith," 


238  THE    FOREST. 

she  said,  "  and,  I  suppose,  never  saw  a  live  .Jesuit 
before.  I  am  sorry  that  Mr.  Alban  has  betrayed  the 
fact  that  you  belong  to  the  society,  for  I  had  hoped 
that  you  would  win  her  confidence  before  she  found 
it  out.  Now  she  will  be  on  her  guard  against  your 
arts." 

"I  must  be  so  much  the  more  artful,"  replied 
Father  Smith,  with  great  gaiety,  "  since  I  have  all 
your  friend's  suspicions  to  work  against." 

"  Oh,  you  are  so  very  deep,"  said  Mary,  laughing 
also,  "  that  you  will  easily  get  round  Jane.  She  will 
never  be  able  to  believe  that  your  simplicity  of  man 
ners,  and  apparently  unsuspecting  gaiety  of  heart, 
hide,  as  they  do,  the  most  designing  duplicity." 

Father  Smith  coloured,  but  laughed  as  before. 
Mary,  who  had  finished  her  supper,  rose,  blessing 
herself  silently,  and  went  to  her  father.  Alban  and 
Father  Smith  talked  about  the  Indians,  and  the  coun 
try,  their  journey,  the  scenery,  the  fishing,  and  other 
sport  of  the  region.  The  conversation  was  not  quite 
so  flowing  when  Miss  De  Groot  was  away.  Father 
Smith  and  she  seemed  to  be  on  so  good  terms,  and 
to  comprehend  each  other  so  well.  Jane  thought  it 
over  and  over.  She  was  obliged  to  own  that  the 
outward  appearance  of  the  former  was  that  of  perfect 
unreserve,  and  that  both  exhibited  a  singular  cheer- 


THE    FOREST.  239 

fulness,  which  she  had  not,  by  the  by,  observed  in 
Mary  before,  at  least  in  the  same  degree.  The  maid 
enly  reserve  of  the  earlier  part  of  their  journey,  and 
the  soft  sentimental  sadness  of  the  latter  portion  of  it, 
were  both  exchanged  foiLabsolute  light-jxeartedness. 

Whether  it  was  natural  or  right,  considering  in 
.how  critical  a  state,  as  she  understood,  her  friend's 
father  was,  she  did  not  know,  and  as  it  was  all  a 
mystery  to  her,  she  could  form  no  judgment.  She 
continued  to  sit  at  the  table  after  the  two  gentlemen 
had  pushed  back  their  chairs,  while  Madeleine  and 
Margaret  were  supping.  The  two  latter  were  now 
very  friendly,  although  the  young  Indian  maintained 
her  air  of  superiority.  Alban  had  gone  out  to  seek 
the  guides.  Father  Smith,  with  a  slight  apology  to 
the  young  lady,  having  turned  his  chair  half  round 
to  the  table,  and  taken  his  autumnal  from  his  pocket, 
had  begun  to  say  his  office.  Jane  observed  with 
curiosity,  not  unmixed  with  dread,  his  squarish, 
foreign-looking  head,  slightly  bald,  the  gray  hair  cut 
close,  his  piercing,  but  open  gray  eye,  fastened  on 
the  red-lettered  page,  while  his  lips  rapidly  moved, 
although  not  a  sound  reached  her  ear.  Even  his 
much-worn,  long  black  robe  did  not  escape  her  atten 
tion  :  —  that  "black  gown  "  so  famous  in  all  the  Indian 
missions :  —  it  was,  and  it  was  not,  her  idea  of  a 


240  THE    FOE  E ST. 

Romish  priest  and  a  Jesuit.  Then  she  wondered  how, 
being  French,  his  name  should  be  "  Smith." 

Meanwhile,  Madeleine  and  Margaret  cleared  away 
the  supper  in  a  trice,  washing  the  things  in  a  pan  of 
hot  water,  and  setting  them  on  the  dresser  in  a  civilized 
way,  very  consoling  again  to  Jane.  But  Margaret 
here  gave  Madeleine  some  instruction,  which  the  latter, 
proud  as  she  was,  received  with  docility.  Knowledge 
is  power,  and  Margaret  gained  perceptibly  upon  the 
haughty  young  Indian.  The  latter,  however,  possessed 
the  advantage  in  point  of  physical  force,  which  she 
evinced  by  bringing  in  on  her  shoulders  three  or 
four  huge  logs  to  replenish  the  fire.  Just  then  (Jane 
noticed  every  thing  of  that  sort)  Miss  De  Groot  came 
from  her  father's  room,  and  spoke  in  a  whisper  to  the 
priest.  He  looked  up  from  his  breviary. 

"  Certainly,  my  dear  child.  To-morrow  morning, 
you  mean  ?  To-night,  if  you  wish  it."  —  Another 
whisper  from  Miss  De  Groot.  —  "  You  have  reason, 
my  child." 

"  When  Mr.  Atherton  comes  back,"  said  Mary 
aloud. 

"  Very  well."  —  And  he  resumed  his  office. 

Mary  returned  to  her  father.  Madeleine  made  up 
a  couple  of  mat  beds  on  the  floor,  by  supplying  each 
with  a  blanket,  and  a  bolster  stuffed  with  corn-leaves. 


THE    FOREST.  241 

After  all  was  finished,  she  resumed  her  stately  and 
rich  blue  shawl,  which  the  "  splendidly-robed "  prin 
cesses  of  the  Iliad  might  have  envied,  and,  advancing 
to  Father  Smith,  dropped  on  one  knee,  crossing  her 
arms  on  her  beaded  breast.  The  priest  made  the  sign 
of  blessing  over  her,  scarcely  looking  up  from  his  book. 
The  young  squaw  rose,  saluted  Jane  with  lofty  cour 
tesy,  made  a  slight  friendly  inclination  to  Margaret, 
and  departed. 

She  was  scarcely  gone  ere  the  priest  knelt.  He 
remained  in  that  position  but  a  moment,  then  rose 
again  and  put  the  book  away.  Jane  wondered  if  he 
would  now  enter  into  conversation  with  her.  As 
Margaret  still  sat,  though  nodding,  in  one  corner, 
perhaps  he  would. 

She  was  not  deceived.  Father  Smith  began  to 
talk  to  her,  like  any  other  gentleman,  but  somewhat 
languidly.  He  suppressed  a  yawn  or  two,  she  noticed. 
In  fact,  as  he  had  watched  a  good  deal  lately  with  Mr. 
De  Groot,  and  ever  rose  betimes  for  mass,  the  good 
father  was  getting  sleepy.  At  length  Alban  came  in, 
which  roused  him  a  little  ;  but  Jane,  who  herself 
longed  for  bed  as  Eve  for  Paradise,  and  only  waited 
to  bid  Alban  good-night,  immediately  retired.  What 
ever  was  his  reason  for  doing  so  on  that  particular 

night,  Alban  kissed  her.     It  was  another  consolation, 

11 


242  THE    FOKEST. 

for  among  all  these  Catholics  she  began  to  feel  rather 
lonely. 

'  A  good  girl  after  all  was  Jane.  She  was  perfectly 
sincere  in  her  religion,  and  faithful  in  discharging  its 
duties.  From  twenty  minutes  to  half  an  hour,  night 
and  morning,  she  regularly  spent  in  her  private  devo 
tions.  No  prayer  said  she  by  rote,  and  invariably  in 
her  self-composed  addresses  to  her  Maker  she  intro 
duced  a  great  many  intercessions  for  those  she  loved, 
so  that  her  prayers  were  a  lively  exercise  of  the 
kindliest  social  affections.  Perhaps  it  was  the  secret 
of  her  long  constancy  to  Alban,  that  she  had  always 
prayed  for  him.  Thus  a  girl's  nature  insinuated  itself 
into  her  hours  of  communion  of  God,  and  the  maiden 
often  believed  herself  fervent  when  she  was  but 
glowing  with  a  tender  human  sentiment.  But  with 
all  that,  was  united  a  strong  sense  of  duty,  a  strict 
conscientiousness,  and  a  real  desire  to  know  and  serve 
God. 

Margaret  came  in  and  took  possession  of  her  mat, 
while  Miss  Jane  was  praying  and  reading  her  Bible. 
The  candle  was  now  burned  nearly  to  the  socket,  and 
it  occurred  to  her  that  before  undressing  it  would  be 
well  to  ascertain  if  Mary  were  coming  soon.  Softly 
opening  the  door,  with  the  intention  of  calling  her 
friend,  she  perceived  Father  Smith  sitting  with  his 


THE    FOREST.  243 

back  to  the  table,  while  Mary  De  Groot  knelt  at  it, 
with  a  little  screen  of  lattice-work  between  them. 
Jane  had  noticed  the  last  in  a  corner,  earlier  in  the 
evening,  and  wondered  what  it  could  be.  These  make 
shifts  are  common  enough  in  the  mission.  Mary  was 
in  tears.  Far  away,  the  door  into  Mr.  De  Groot's 
room  was  open,  and  she  saw  Alban  sitting  by  the 
bed. 

She  hastily  closed  the  door.  Sincerely  shocked  to 
have  it  brought  actually  under  her  eyes  to  what  Mary 
must  habitually  submit,  she  put  out  the  expiring 
candle,  and  having  betaken  herself  to  that  retreat 
which  is  our  nightly  grave,  lay  thinking  of  what  she 
had  seen.  Mary  soon  came  in,  disrobed  herself  silently 
in  the  dark,  and  placed  herself  by  her  side.  When 
Jane  kissed  her,  as  was  their  mutual  wont  before  their 
souls  parted  company  for  the  night,  she  felt  the  tears 
still  on  her  friend's  cheek. 

"I  wonder,"  thought  Jane,  "  if  he  has  been  scolding 
her  for  loving  Alban,  which  I  am  sure  she  does,  or 
what  it  is.  —  Is  your  father's  state  very  discouraging  ?  " 
she  ventured  to  ask. 

"I  do  not  feel  it  to  be  so,  with  good  nursing. 
Alban  and  Father  Smith  will  take  care  of  him  by 
night;  I  and  Margaret  by  day.  That  is  the  arrange 
ment  which,  I  believe,  is  best  for  all." 


244  THE    FOREST. 

"  Why,  then,  do  you  weep  ?  " 

Mary  did  not  reply  for  a  moment. 

"I  wish  I  could  believe  it  was  contrition.  My 
dear  Jane,  I  beg  your  pardon  ten  thousand  times  for 
judging  you  so  uncharitably,  and  speaking  to  you  so 
unkindly,  as  I  did  to-day." 

"Have  you  been  confessing  that?"  replied  Jane, 
affectionately. 

"That  for  one  thing." 

"  And  do  you  always  cry  when  you  confess  ?  "  pur 
sued  Jane,  still  curious. 

"Not  always,"  said  Mary,  laughing  softly.  "You 
did  not  think  I  was  such  a  fool,  did  you  ?  " 

"Confession  must  be  very  humiliating,"  continued 
Jane,  in  a  tone  inviting  to  confidence. 

"  Of  course  —  but  the  sweetness  after !  "  —  She 
paused,  raised  herself  on  one  elbow,  and  sung  in  a 
clear  voice,  without  a  tear  or  sob  in  it,  to  a  melody 
singularly  expressive  of  exultation, 

"  Deposuit  potentes  de  sede,  et  exaltavit  humiles. 
Esurientes  implovit  bonis  ;  et  divites  dimisit  inanes." 

"  What  does  it  mean  ?  "  asked  Jane. 

"  That  humility  like  yours,  dear  Jane,  is  rewarded 
with  spiritual  blessings,  while  pride  like  mine  is  sent 
away  empty." 

"It  is  the  Song  of  the  Blessed  Virgin?" 


THE    FOREST.  245 

"Yes,  the  Magnificat,  which,  is  always  sung,  you 
know,  at  Vespers." 

"  Your  religion  has  something  for  all  kinds  of  feel 
ing,"  said  Jane,  a  little  disappointed  at  this  result  of 
her  inquisition. 

"  The  bread  of  Heaven  has  every  taste  in  itself, " 
replied  Mary,  lying  down,  "  but  only  to  the  palate  of 
faith.  Let  us  go  to  sleep,  my  dear  Jane,"  she  added, 
in  a  firm  yet  tender  voice.  "  If  you  cannot  sleep,  try 
to  watch  with  Christ." 


246  THE    FOREST. 


CHAPTER   XY. 


%dpiv  jag  kanv  TJ  TIKTOVO'  uei' 
&TOV  6'  aTcofifiel  ptriGTtq  ev  Treirov&oToc;, 
ovTTore  yivorf  dv  ovrof  evyevris  dvfy. 

Ajax  of  Sopkodes. 

Kindness  doth  kindness  ever  more  beget  : 
And  once  received  creates  a  generous  debt, 
No  well-born  man  hath  e'er  forgotten  yet. 

Anon. 


WE  must  retrace  our  steps  a  little,  to  show  how  Alban 
passed  the  first  evening  at  Cedar  Lake.  We  have 
mentioned  that  he  went  forth  to  seek  the  guides. 
His  principal  design  was  to  pay  and  dismiss  Duncan. 
Morrell  and  Courtney  he  meant  to  retain  till  Mr. 
De  Groot  was  fit  to  travel,  or,  should  his  disease,  un 
happily,  have  an  adverse  termination,  until  it  became 
necessary  to  convey  his  daughter  back  to  her  friends 
and  home. 

Inquiring  the  way  of  some  Indian  children  frolick 
ing  by  the  mystical  gleam  of  a  bright  aurora,  and  of 
whom  the  boys  were  in  a  state  of  nearly  complete 


THE    FOREST.  247 

nudity,  notwithstanding  the  cool  autumnal  night,  he 
was  led  by  a  couple  of  the  latter,  bounding  and  kick 
ing  up  their  heels  before  him,  like  young  imps  of 
darkness,  to  the  cabin  where  the  guides  were  lodged. 
On  approaching  it,  he  heard,  as  in  the  open  air,  a  short, 
suppressed  scream,  like  that  given  by  one  who  receives 
a  sudden  blow.  It  was  the  voice  of  a  woman,  and 
he  involuntarily  called  out.  There  were  gardens  all 
around,  hedged  with  lofty  elder. 

He  found  Morrell  and  Courtney  in  the  cabin  of 
their  entertainers.  Duncan  and  his  wife  were  not 
there,  but  a  squaw  went  out  to  call  them,  and  they 
presently  appeared.  Mrs.  Duncan  slunk  into  a  corner, 
where  she  seated  herself  on  the  floor.  Her  husband 
came  forward  with  an  air  of  great  respect. 

"  I  do  not  require  your  services  here,  Mr.  Duncan," 
said  Atherton,  after  some  discussion  which  need  not 
be  repeated,  "  and  when  we  leave  this  place  it  will 
be  easy  for  us  to  obtain  such  additional  guides  or 
boats  as  may  be  needed.  How  much  shall  I  pay 
you,  then,  for  every  thing,  including  the  accommoda 
tions  at  your  shanty,  supper,  lodging,  and  all,  for  our 
whole  party?" 

"  I  suppose  a  dollar  a-head  would  n't  be  too  much, 
would  it  ?  "  replied  Duncan.  "  And  guide's  wages  for 
me  and  Dorothy.  I  suppose  two  days  I  ought  to  say, 


248  THE    FOREST. 

comin'  and  goin' :  —  I  don't  charge  nothin'  for  the  use 
of  the  boats." 

The  other  two  men  laughed,  and  Atherton  slightly 
smiled. 

"Very  good.  A  dollar  a-head  for  our  board  and 
lodging  at  Eacket  Lake,"  answered  the  latter,  "  makes 
seven  dollars,  and  guide's  wages  for  yourself  and  wife 
for  two  days,  six  more.  I  don't  object.  And  if  you 
choose  to  part,  as  you  intimated,  with  the  best  of  your 
two  canoes,  I  will  buy  it.  I  will  give  you  twelve 
dollars  for  it.  It  will  be  twenty-five  in  all.  Yes  or 
no?" 

Duncan  accepted  the  offer  without  haggling. 

"  Miss  De  Groot  mentioned  to  me,  as  I  was  coming 
away,  that  before  you  leave  she  wishes  to  see  Mrs. 
Duncan  —  I  presume  with  the  intention  of  testifying 
her  regard  in  some  form.  If  you  mean  to  start  very 
early  to-morrow,  you  had  better  let  your  wife  go  round 
to  the  mission-house  immediately." 

Mrs.  Duncan  half  started  to  her  feet.  But  her 
husband  observed  that  they  should  not  get  away  very 
early.  It  was  not  worth  while  to  trouble  Miss  De 
Groot  to-night. 

"  I  sha'n't  follow  back  on  my  tracks,"  said  he.  "  I 
mean,  now  I  am  here,  to  go  on  to  the  Moose  Lakes, 
to  see  a  fellow  there.  My  wife  can  stop  at  the  Lake, 


THE    FOREST.  249 

if  she  likes,  or  Miss  De  Groot  wants  her  for  any 
thing." 

Alban  gave  the  squatter  five  half-eagles,  and  with 
a  smile  requested  Morrell  to  see  that  the  right  canoe 
was  retained. 

"Never  fear,"  said  Duncan.  "  You  don't  suppose 
I  would  carry  off  the  best,  after  selling  it  to  you,  Mr. 
Atherton." 

"I  should  be  sorry  to  think  ill  of  you  in  any 
respect,  Mr.  Duncan,"  said  Alban  rising.  "  Good 
night  all,"  he  added.  "Good-night,  Mrs.  Duncan." 

Morrell  and  Courtney  followed  him  out,  and  walked 
on  a  little  way  with  him. 

"  You  paid  him  too  much,  Mr.  Atherton,"  said  the 
former.  "Twice  too  much.  He  was  n't  entitled  to 
any  thing  for  his  wife.  You  did  n't  ask  him  to  bring 
her  along." 

"  He  made  her  come  just  to  carry  his  canoe  for 
him,"  said  Courtney. 

"  A  dollar  apiece  for  our  lodging  in  that  smoky 
log-cabin  of  his  is  outrageous,"  said  Morrell.  "Why 
Courtney  and  I  would  have  slept  all  night  under  a 
tree  for  our  two  dollars.  I  didn't  like  to  say  so, 
though,  and  it  is  as  well,  perhaps,  that  you  paid  it, 
Mr.  Atherton,  since  you  don't  mind  the  money ;  and 
I  would  n't  have  you  get  his  ill-will." 

11* 


250  THE    FOREST. 

"I'd  risk  his  ill-will,"  said  Courtney.  "I'll  be 
blamed  if  I  'd  a'  given  him  all  he  asked." 

"  You  don't  know  Iray  Duncan  as  well  as  I  do," 
rejoined  the  more  cautious  Morrell.  "He's  a  fellow 
that  I'd  as  soon  have  for  a  friend  as  an  enemy  — 
more  particularly  in  these  here  woods." 

"  He 's  a  regular  thief, "  said  Courtney. 

"I  am  sorry  Mr.  Atherton  let  him  see  that  his 
purse  was  so  well  lined,"  pursued  Morrell.  "  If  I  had 
thought  of  it  beforehand,"  he  added,  with  a  sharp 
twinkle  of  his  keen  eye  in  the  northern  light,  "  I 
would  have  advised  you  not  to  pay  him  in  money, 
but  to  give  him  an  order  on  Hart." 

"  His  demand  was  extortionate,  I  suppose,"  said 
Alban  with  a  smile ;  "  but  I  would  have  turned  hirn 
out  of  his  shanty  neck  and  heels  that  night,  with  your 
good  aid  and  Pierre's,  if  he  had  not  concluded  to 
vacate  it  for  the  ladies.  I  could  not  dispute  the  bill 
after  that." 

The  guides  would  have  accompanied  Atherton  to 
the  door  of  the  mission-house,  but  he  meant  to  visit 
the  chapel,  and  on  arriving  at  the  latter,  he  dismissed 
them.  The  great  door  of  the  forest  church  was  shut, 
and  bolted  on  the  inside,  but  on  having  recourse  to 
that  of  the  sacristy,  he  found  it  secured  merely  by  a 
latch,  which  was  raised  by  a  leathern  string.  He 


THE    FOREST.  251 

entered  and  groped  his  way  into  the  chapel.  The 
sanctuary  lamp  was  still  burning,  and  afforded  suffi 
cient  light  to  show  the  sombre,  empty  interior.  He 
went  to  the  further  end,  and  knelt  down  by  one  of 
the  benches. 

0  happy  Faith!  Man's  best  consoler,  and  his 
guiding  star  in  the  pilgrimage  of  this  world!  What 
are  we,  indeed,  if  we  have  no  hope  beyond  what 
Nature  gives  us?  It  was  here  in  the  presence,  no 
longer  of  woods  and  waters,  and  the  nightly-sparkling 
sky,  but  of  the  Eternal,  clothed  in  flesh  — of  the 
cloud  created  by  the  Lord  to  hide  His  own  counte 
nance — it  was  before  that  pale  symbol  and  sign  of  a 
present  Saviour,  that  he  came  to  seek  new  light  and 
strength,  to  fit  him  to  rise  above  himself,  and  all  that 
intellect  bestows  or  passion  promises. 

Atherton  felt  that  the  time  had  come  for  his 
admission  to  the  full  privileges  for  which  he  so  long 
had  sighed.  Here  his  long  initiation  would  be  com 
plete,  and  the  mystery  of  mysteries  would,  in  a  cer 
tain  sense,  be  unveiled  to  his  believing  gaze :  — 
pledge  of  the  blessed  hoar  when  it  should  be  unveiled 
perfectly  and  for  ever. 

The  moral  of  the  history  of  Alban  is,  that  no  man 
should  be  discouraged  because  he  has  to  combat  with 
ignoble  or  insignificant  foes;  for  the  victory,  if  by 


252  THE    FOREST. 

the  aid  of  Heaven  lie  is  so  happy  as  to  gain  it,  will 
not  be  the  less  glorious  on  that  account.  It  was  not 
in  vain,  for  instance,  that  during  the  two  months  and 
more  of  our  hero's  renewed  intercourse  with  his 
cousin  Jane,  the  law  of  the  Church  (in  his  eyes  that 
of  God)  had  been  pressing  with  a  steady,  equable 
force  upon  his  obedient  will.  He  had  made  an  im 
mense  gain  even  on  the  side  of  this  world ;  for  he 
had  acquired  a  new  affection  —  that  of  a  brother  for  a 
sister;  and  his  whole  character  was  ennobled  and 
invigorated,  as  well  by  it  as  by  the  process  through 
which  it  had  been  developed.  But,  on  the  side  of 
the  world  to  come,  his  gain  was  inestimable,  as  per 
haps  will  appear  when  he  is  called  upon  to  make 
some  more  difficult  sacrifice.  For  not  while  we  live 
is  the  strife  ended  or  the  reward  obtained;  and  with 
every  new  advance,  rise  before  us  new  heights  of 
virtue  to  be  attempted. 

This  cannot  be  perfectly  shown  in  a  fiction,  for 
there  the  law  of  unity  demands  a  full  close  of  the 
action,  such  as  is  apparently  found  even  in  life.  So 
in  a  true  story,  faithful  love  must  be  at  last  either 
disappointed  or  blessed;  generosity  must  be  crowned 
with  either  martyrdom  or  felicity. 

"While  Atherton  lingered  in  the  chapel,  some  one 
tried  the  principal  door.  Next  that  of  the  sacristy 


THE    FOREST.  253 

was  attempted,  and  of  course  with  success.  A  man 
came  in,  covered.  It  was  Duncan's  marten  cap.  The 
trapper  threw  a  careless  glance  towards  the  lower 
part  of  the  church,  which  the  light  of  the  sanctuary 
lamp,  full  in  his  eyes,  must  have  prevented  his  seeing 
with  distinctness,  and  turned  to  the  altar.  His  hunter's 
knife  was  in  his  hand.  Without  delay  he  threw  one 
leg  over  the  sanctuary  rail.  Alban's  first  impulse 
was  to  rush  upon  the  sacrilegious  robber;  but  he 
mastered  it,  and  putting  his  hand  before  his  eyes, 
breathed  a  Jcyrie  eleison  audibly.  He  could  see 
Duncan's  conscience-stricken  start;  the  limb  already 
over  the  rail  was  withdrawn ;  the  robber,  unbonneted, 
gazed  at  the  tabernacle,  and  then  slowly  round  the 
chapel  a  second  time.  He  saw  Alban,  and  evidently 
either  believing  or  hoping  himself  unseen,  drew  back 
stealthily  into  the  sacristy  and  vanished. 

Atherton  was  careful,  before  going  out,  to  pull  the 
latch-string  out  of  the  door,  which  thus,  when  closed, 
became  effectually  locked.  He  also  mentioned  the 
occurrence  immediately  to  the  missionary,  who,  after 
some  reflection,  sent  an  Indian  to  sleep  in  his  blanket 
at  the  door  of  the  sacristy. 

And  now  it  was  that  Mary  De  Groot  went  to 
confession,  and  our  hero,  with  a  firm,  happy  mind, 
took  her  place  at  her  father's  side.  Mr.  De  Groot 


254  THE    FOREST. 

had  asked  for    him   repeatedly   during  the   evening, 
and  began  by  complaining  of  his  neglect. 

"I  knew  that  Miss  De  Groot  was  with  you,  sir," 
pleaded  Alban. 

"  Was  that  a  reason  for  your  staying  away,  Ather- 
ton  ?  Who  is  this  cousin  of  yours  that  has  come  on 
here  with  you?" 

"  With  Miss  De  Groot,  sir,  not  with  me." 

"Oh,  I  understand.  I  have  been  questioning 
Mary  about  her.  It  seems  that  she  is  only  nineteen, 
very  beautiful,  very  amiable,  very  fond  of  you,  &c., 
&c.  What  I  want  to  know  is,  what  I  cannot  worm 
out  of  my  daughter,  viz.,  whether  you  are  equally 
fond  of  her  — of  your  cousin,  I  mean.  Now,  Ather- 
ton,  don't  worry  me  with  boyish  shying,  but  say 
yes  or  no,  so  that  a  sick  man  can  understand  you." 

"My  cousin  and  myself  were  partly  brought  up 
together,  and  her  partiality  for  me  cannot  exceed  the 
tender  affection  I  feel  for  her,"  replied  Alban.  "But 
as  you  probably  refer  to  other  views,  not  to  shy 
about  it,  sir,  our  relationship  and  difference  of  faith 
preclude  them." 

"Have  you  joined  the  Church  of  Eome  yet?" 

"I  have  not  been  openly  received." 

"Listen  to  me,  Atherton,"  said  Mr.  De  Groot, 
springing  up  in  bed.  "Put  one  of  those  chairs 


THE    FOREST.  255 

behind  my  pillow.  Believe  what  you  like  ;  —  Tran- 
substantiation,  if  you  think  proper ;  —  but  do  not 
implicate  yourself  with  a  communion  which,  justly 
or  not,  is  detested  and  abhorred  by  the  great  mass 
of  your  countrymen  —  by  all  those  with  whom  your 
birth  and  education  associate  you.  This  is  essentially 
a  Protestant  country.  Why  make  yourself  an  out 
cast?" 

"Because  God  has  given  me  the  grace  of  faith," 
said  Atherton,  in  a  very  composed  manner.  "You 
would  have  me  a  philosopher,  sir,"  he  added,  "but 
I  aspire  to  be  a  Christian." 

"A  pure  chimera!  And  are  you  prepared  to 
sacrifice  to  it  the  hope  of  my  daughter's  hand  ?  " 

"  This  tires  you,  sir,"  said  Atherton. 

"Uselessly,  you  would  add.  I  understand  you. 
You  are  bent  on  making  yourself  a  martyr.  I  have 
some  experience  of  this  form  of  enthusiasm.  Mary- 
has  given  me  a  specimen  of  it.  All  the  natural  pas 
sions  plead  in  vain  to  one  who  considers  them  as  a 
more  precious  sacrifice  to  his  principles.  Are  you 
listening  to  what  I  say?" 

"  Certainly,  sir." 

"You  know,  without  my  saying  it,  that  I  wish 
my  only  child  to  marry,"  pursued  Mr.  De  Groot. 
"  Otherwise  the  inheritance  of  my  fathers  goes  to 


256  THE    FOREST. 

strangers.  Mary  is  the  first  girl  in  our  family  for 
three  generations;  we  have  put  forth  no  female 
scions  and  the  males  have  run  out:  my  brothers  and 
uncles  died  young  or  childless.  I 'think  that  I  have 
a  right  to  require  that  she  shall  wed,  and  transmit 
our  blood,  if  not  our  name,  to  a  new  stock.  I  do 
not  ask  her  to  marry  a  person  she  cannot  love.  I 
am  willing  to  humour  all  reasonable  female  fancies. 
But  I  saw  with  pleasure  the  affection  which  appeared 
to  have  sprung  up  between  her  and  yourself.  Your 
family,  Atherton,  was  unexceptionable,  your  character 
stood  high,  your  talents  and  knowledge  were  what  I 
should  rather  have  desired  than  expected  to  find,  you 
had  sound  manly  health,  and  your  being  poor  was  a 
recommendation,  as  it  would  make  you  more  entirely 
my  son." 

"  Miss  De  Groot  is  engaged  with  Father  Smith  in 
the  next  room,"  observed  Alban.  "She  may  over 
hear  what  we  are  saying." 

"Shut  the  door,  then." 

"  I  think  they  would  "both  prefer  it  were  left  open, 
sir,  just  for  the  present" 

"  Oh,  very  well." 

Mr.  De  Groot  remained  quiet  till  the  missionary 
came  in  to  bid  him  good-night.  When  the  latter 
was  gone,  he  again  requested  Atherton  to  close  the 


THE    FOKEST.  257 

door,  and  recurred  to  the  subject.  Motioning  Alban 
to  sit  near  him,  and  fixing  his  eyes  on  the  young 
man's,  he  said, 

"It  is  in  regard  to  my  daughter  that  I  wish  to 
question  you.  And  I  must  be  plain,  for  my  time  is 
brief.  Are  you  in  love  with  her  or  not?  That  you 
have  won  her  affections  is  clear  enough.  What,  then, 
are  your  intentions  ?  " 

Atherton  felt  strongly  inclined  to  resist  this  impe 
rious  inquisition.  The  fact  was  that  he  had  no  inten 
tions.  But  he  glanced  at  Mr.  De  Groot's  pale,  anxious 
face,  and  felt  at  the  same  time  pity  and  a  sense  of 
gratitude,  which  overcame  his  first  impulse  of  pride. 

"It  would  be  great  presumption  in  me  to  raise 
my  eyes  to  Miss  De  Groot,"  said  he. 

"I  know  that,"  answered  her  father,  impatiently. 
"But  have  you  presumed?" 

"I  confess,"  returned  Alban,  "that  to  me  she  has 
always  been  like  any  other  girl  —  and — I  have  never 
checked  the  admiration  she  excited,  any  more  than 
if  she  had  been  penniless,  or  I  had  been  rich." 

"Manly!— I  like  that." 

"  I  love  her,  but  I  have  never  addressed  to  her  a 
word  that  implied  it,"  continued  Alban,  rather  haugh 
tily —  he  scarcely  knew  why. 

"  In  regard  to  fortune,"  said  Mr.  De  Groot,  hoarsely, 


258  THE    FOREST. 

"I  can  set  your  mind  at  rest.  In  the  first  place,  I 
owe  my  wealth  (I  may  say)  to  your  father.  Twenty 
years  ago,  when  I  came  to  the  property,  it  was  greatly- 
involved.  The  Manor  was  at  nominal  rents  ;  the  New 
York  farm  was  unproductive  and  mortgaged.  I  offered 
to  sell  your  father  the  latter,  in  order  to  clear  off  the 
incumbrances.  He  refused,  on  the  ground  that  if  I 
held  on  it  would  make  me  rich.  He  did  more:  he 
lent  me  money  to  improve  the  estate,  which  is  now, 
you  know,  covered  with  houses,  or  laid  out  in  city  lots, 
as  he  then  predicted  to  me,  and  immensely  valuable. 

So  you  see  there  is  a  justice  i 

'"" 


/  /  \  *  —  — 

wealthr")  said  the  Patroon,  looking  at  him  kindly,  but 

anxiously. 

"  My  father  could  not  have  done  otherwise.  Your 
father  and  he  were  friends,  I  have  always  understood." 

"And  his  son  and  myself  are  friends  now,"  con 
tinued  Mr.  De  Groot,  still  very  cordially,  and  almost 
tenderly.  "  Oh,  this  anguish  !  "  murmured  he,  with 
an  expression  of  acute  pain.  "  My  attack  is  coming 
on  again." 

"This  conversation  excites  you  injuriously,  my 
dear  sir." 

"  Never  mind  that.  I  want  to  tell  you  something 
more.  You  must  be  a  little  decided  with  Mary,  if  you 
wish  to  win  her.  She  has  got  a  convent  into  her  head. 


THE    FOREST.  259 

But  my  will  is  made.  If  she  becomes  a  nun,  she 
forfeits  every  thing.  You  must  not  let  her  commit 
any  such  folly.  Eemember,  you  have  my  cordial  con 
sent  to  your  suit,  and  I  wish  you  to  succeed.  Don't 
let  such  a  girl  trifle  with  you,  Atherton,  and  with  her 
own  happiness,  too." 

"  Whatever  becomes  a  man  and  a  Christian  I  will 
do,"  said  Alban,  earnestly. 

"Ah!  that  is  right.  At  the  Virginia  Springs  the 
girl  played  the  insensible  finely.  Suitors  fluttered 
around  her,  of  course,  like  birds  over  the  unripe  fruit- 
trees.  There  was  one  young  Marylander,  rich,  hand 
some,  gallant,  of  her  own  faith,  who,  I  thought,  would 
have  made  an  impression  upon  her.  He  did  not. 
Alban,  it  belongs  to  you  to  do  that,  and  I  am  glad 
of  it." 

"Do  not  misunderstand  me,  sir,"  said  Alban  has 
tily.  "I  could  not  interfere  with  Miss  De  Groot's 
vocation,  if,  indeed,  she  is  really  called  to  the  life  of 
religion." 

"  Then  you  do  not  love  her  after  all !  "  said  her 
father,  agitated,  yet  coldly. 

"Not  love  her!"  exclaimed  Atherton,  with  emo 
tion. 

"Yes,  in  the  cold  New  England  fashion !— Ah, 
what  ardour  Carroll  showed!  what  a  noble  grief  I" 


260  THE    FOREST* 

But  here  Mr.  De  Groot  was  seized  with  a  paroxysm 
that  terrified  Atherton.  He  summoned  Father  Smith. 

"He  is  worse,"  said  the  missionary,  hastily  ap 
proaching  the  bedside.  "  I  feared  the  effect  of  these 
conversations.  But  he  would " 

"Vincent  must  be  called,"  said  Atherton. 

"True.  Francois  should  have  been  here  to  carry 
the  message,  but  he  is  watching  at  the  sacristy  door. 
You  do  not  know  the  old  man's  cabin.  I  will  go 
for  him." 

So  saying,  the  priest  sallied  forth  in  quest  of  the 
old  Indian,  leaving  Alban  to  watch  the  patient  till 
his  return. 


THE    FOKEST.  261 


CHAPTER    XYI. 


Among  the  goddds  high  it  is  affirmed, 
And  by  etern  word  written  and  confirmed, 
Thou  shalt  be  wedded  unto  one  of  tho' 
That  have  for  thee  so  muchel  care  and  wo. 

KnigWs  Tale. 


THE  scene  in  the  sick  room,  where  Alban  remained 
alone,  was  terrible.  The  good  missionary's  anxiety  to 
keep  Mr.  De  Groot  from  being  agitated  was  now  ex 
plained.  It  was  no  other  than  a  disease,  probably  an 
inflammation,  of  the  spinal  cord,  which  had  seized  this 
intellectual  man.  The  ultimate  origin,  doubtless,  had 
been  nervous  excitement,  developing  in  a  low  fever; 
but  the  immediate  cause  was  a  cold  taken  by  exposure 
when  hunting  with  Duncan  at  Racket. 

A  philosopher  convulsed!  It  contained  a  simple, 
yet  pregnant  lesson.  What  mocking  power,  derisive 
of  the  dignity  of  man,  controls  those  muscles,  —  as  the 
imprisoned  steam,  in  the  effort  to  escape,  throws  the 
iron  limbs  of  the  engine  into  a  seeming  agony  of 


262 


THE    FOEEST. 


labour  I  What  unseen  and  merciless  organ-blower 
educes  from  that  heaving  chest  and  strangely-fixed 
throat  those  dissonant  cries  in  place  of  their  wonted 
flowing  eloquence  !  Where  is  now  that  sovereign  and 
piercing  intelligence  of  the  noble  eyes?  Boiling  at 
random  are  the  masterless  orbs,  turning  up  their  white 
spheres  in  a  ghastly  style.  So  violent  was  the  spasm, 
that  the  sufferer  would  have  been  thrown  out  of  bed 
but  for  Atherton's  vigorous  aid.  There  may  be  no 
such  thing  as  punishment,  nature  herself  now  says  to 
thee,  0  mighty  speculatist!  —  but  assuredly  there  is 
such  a  thing  as  suffering,  even  in  the  world  of  the 
All-good.  If  in  this  world,  why  not  in  the  next  ? 

However,  it  lasted  but  a  short  time.  A  remission 
soon  declared  itself.  The  limbs  relaxed;  the  frame, 
which  had  been  elevated  in  a  stiff  arch,  sank  down ; 
the  eye  recovered  its  lustre,  and  passed,  though  enfee 
bled,  under  the  control  of  its  owner's  will  and  intelli 
gence.  The  first  use  which  Mr.  De  Groot  made  of 
speech  was  to  breathe  his  daughter's  name. 

"Call  Mary, call  her !" 

It  was  not  till  this  request  had  been  repeated,  and 
with  a  reproachful  glance  at  the  young  man,  that 
Alban,  somewhat  reluctantly,  obeyed.  Crossing  the 
vacant  intervening  apartment,  he  tapped  at  the  ladies' 
door.  Despite  the  gravity  of  the  circumstances,  his 


THE    FOKEST.  263 

heart  beat  with  a  violent  timidity  at  approaching  so 
sacred  a  locality  as  the  bower  of  the  maiden  he  loved. 
There  was  no  answer,  and  he  tapped  again,  louder. 
A  light  step  bounded  to  the  door. 

"Who  is  there?"  asked  a  voice  like  the  silver 
striking  of  a  clock. 

"  Your  father  is  worse  and  asks  for  you,"  responded 
the  deep  and  manly  accent. 

"  I  come,"  said  the  maiden. 

In  an  incredibly  brief  time  Mary  appeared;  but 
the  remission  had  already  gone  off ;  she  arrived  only 
to  witness  a  repetition  of  the  same  frightful  paroxysm 
which  we  have  already  described.  Again  the  frame 
of  the  sufferer  became  rigid,  with  a  suddenness  and 
violence  of  muscular  contraction  that  threw  him  half 
out  of  bed  as  before ;  again  he  uttered  senseless  cries, 
and  his  eyes  rolled  in  blank  and  ghastly  circles. 

"  Oh !  is  my  father  dying  ?  "  said  she,  trembling, 
and  kneeling  down  by  the  low  bedside. 

"I  hope  not  yet." 

"Where  is  Father  Smith?" 

"Gone  for  Vincent." 

The  paroxysm  was  soon  spent,  yet  it  seemed  an 
age  to  those  who  watched  it.  Atherton  noticed  that 
the  remission  was  less  perfect,  and  that  Mr.  De  Groot's 
ever-commanding  eye,  in  particular,  did  not  regain  all 


264  THE    FOEEST. 

its  lucid  and  beaming  intelligence  as  before.  He 
looked  at  them,  however,  and  spoke. 

"Mary!" 

"  My  dear  father !  " 

"  That  partnership  —  I  want  it  settled,"  he  replied. 

"Sir?" 

"  It  must  be  a  joint-stock  concern,"  said  he,  look 
ing  at  her  painfully. 

"  He  wanders,  Mr.  Alban,"  whispered  she. 

"I  mean  that  co-partnership  —  I  spoke  of  it  to 
both  the parties,"  said  her  father,  in  evident  dis 
tress  for  words ;  —  "  you  must  be  a  partner  "  —  he 
was  plainly  searching  his  memory  for  an  expression 
to  convey  his  meaning. 

Both,  no  doubt,  understood  perfectly  what  he  in 
tended,  yet  neither  could  help  him  out.  Of  course  the 
daughter  could  not ;  and  the  young  man  was  withheld 
by  many  feelings,  but  chiefly  by  an  irresistible  sense 
of  shame,  very  natural  to  youth. 

"My  dear  father,"  said  Mary,  "try  to  remember 
that  God  so  loved  the  world  as  to  give  His  only-begotten 
Son,  that  whosoever  believeth  in  Him  may  have  life  ever 
lasting.11 

She  spoke  softly,  but  bent  her  eyes  steadily  and 
brightly  upon  his. 

"  Yes ;    yqu   and   he  — "   glancing   at   Atherton  — 


THE    FOREST.  265 

"have  both  taken  shares  in  that  stock  —  I  dare  say 
it  is  good  —  I  never  — -speculated  in  any  thing  —  of 
that  description,"  answered  her  father.  —  "But  you 
must — join  together  —  one  interest  — ' 

The  convulsion  was  already  travelling  onward 
again  like  a  returning  wave  that  dashes  higher  than 
its  predecessor  on  a  tide-vexed  beach.  In  a  moment 
all  sense  and  self-control  were  submerged,  as  the  breath 
of  a  bather  is  taken  away  by  the  wild  onset  of  the 
surf. 

Father  Smith  did  not  return  till  he  came  in  sup 
porting  old  Vincent.  The  old  man  tottered  to  the 
bedside,  and  applied  his  trembling  fingers  to  the  pa 
tient's  wrist.  Alban  and  Mary  exchanged  glances 
which  expressed  how  little  confidence  they  felt  in 
that  superannuated  Indian,  whose  form  bent  nearly 
double  with  age,  his  partial  deafness  and  wild  mass 
of  matted  hair,  gave  him  an  appearance  of  savage 
decrepitude  rather  than  of  venerable  wisdom.  Yin- 
cent,  however,  as  soon  as  the  paroxysm  was  over, 
administered  a  draught  which  Mr.  De  Groot  took 
submissively.  It  was  Lobelia,  and  was  followed  by 
its  characteristic  symptoms  of  instantaneous  vomiting 
and  complete  relaxation.  Supported  during  the  first 
by  his  daughter  and  Alban,  when  it  was  over,  Mr. 
De  Groot  sank  back  upon  his  pillow,  utterly  prostrate. 

12 


266  THE    FOKEST. 

But  the  effect  upon  the  spasms  was  immediate  and 
marvellous.  They  never  returned  after  he  took  the 
draught,  and  in  about  twenty  minutes  he  slept. 

As  soon  as  this  occurred,  the  missionary  retired 
forthwith  to  the  outer  room  and  threw  himself  upon 
his  mat.  Old  Vincent,  too,  hobbled  into  the  same 
apartment  and  lay  down  in  a  corner,  folding  his 
blanket  around  him.  Alban  and  Mary  De  Groot 
remained  by  her  father's  side. 

Alban  observed  his  companion,  whose  eyes  were 
bent  on  her  father.  Her  face  was  flushed  with  excite 
ment  of  an  unusual  character.  Mary's  lips  were  beau 
tifully  formed  but  remarkably  full,  and  her  mouth 
was  noble  and  expressive  rather  than  delicate  like 
Jane's.  Ordinarily,  the  full  orb  and  dark  gray  iris 
of  her  beautiful  eye  expressed  thought  rather  than 
feeling ;  —  but  that  sibylline  glance  was  sometimes 
exchanged  in  a  moment  for  a  lambent  fire  of  female 
softness,  the  more  difficult  to  resist  because  unexpected. 
It  was  one  of  the  latter  glances  that  she  suddenly,  and 
evidently  for  some  time  unconsciously,  gave  Alban. 
She  had  dressed  in  haste,  in  the  dark,  and  under  the 
stimulus  of  alarm.  As  she  sat,  bending  forward,  upon 
the  side  of  the  couch  opposite  to  Alban,  many  a  slight 
mark  of  this  negligence  was  visible,  that  would  have 
been  ungraceful  in  another,  but  added  a  charm  to  her. 


THE    FOKEST.  267 

Her  raven  tresses,  put  carelessly  back,  half  hiding  her 
ears,    and    otherwise    considerably   disordered,    might 
yet   have   been  so    arranged  for  their    mere   flowing 
and  massive  beauty  at  the  wish  of  a  sculptor.     The 
neck,   hidden  by  neither  collar  nor  kerchief,   by   its 
fine  turn  and  snowy  whiteness,  carried  out  this  inevi 
table  suggestion  of  a  piece  of  noble  statuary ;  and  the 
scantier   flow  of  her   garments  showed  more  purely 
the  wave-like,  unexaggerated  outline  of  that  form  so 
bending,  modest,  and  virgin-like. 

If  the  father,  emaciated  by  disease,  and  prostrated 
by  the  energetic  poison  of  the  Indian  leaf,  was  an 
image  of  death,  the  daughter,  sitting  on  his  low  couch, 
as  if  that  picturesque  contrast  had  been  designed  by 
the  ever-working,  viewless  Artist  whom  men  call 
chance,  and  gods  call  Providence,  was  no  less  an  image 
of  young  and  graceful  life. 

Atherton  was  deeply  agitated  by  her  singular, 
unconscious  gaze,  although  he  would  not  have  dis 
turbed  her  in  it  for  the  world:  as  when  a  yearling 
doe  (for  this  happens  to  all  creatures  whose .  instinct 
is  flight)  is  surprised  by  one  roving  the  forest,  she 
gazes  at  him  at  first  steadfastly  with  her  soft,  dark 
eyes  in  a  sort  of  dream,  and  he  fears  to  move,  know 
ing  that  the  first  step,  or  a  hand  put  forth,  will  cause 
her  to  spring,  startled,  into  the  forest.  So  the  scene 


268  THE    FOREST. 

grew  every  moment  more  still  and  quiet,  till  Alban 
could  almost  hear  the  beating  of  his  own  heart. 

It  might  well  be  that  some  of  this  beauty  was 
subjective,  growing  out  of  the  deep  moral  tenderness 
and  inward  worship  of  the  gazer;  another  might 
have  perceived  only  a  pretty  girl  enough,  not  so 
neatly  dressed  as  usual,  where  Alban  saw  a  loveliness 
and  majesty  half  celestial,  and  a  decorum  beyond 
criticism ;  and  it  was  certain  that,  while  his  veneration 
for  her,  put  to  this  test,  was  raised  to  its  greatest 
height,  his  passion  was  so  too,  and  his  manly  courage. 
He  thought  in  his  impassioned  re  very  that  he  saw 
the  hand  of  Heaven  beckoning  him  on.  Every  night, 
for  three  successive  days,  it  had  been  as  if  an  angel 
had  brought  this  maiden  to  him,  as  Eve  was  brought 
to  Adam  by  his  Creator,  and  at  last  a  voice  had 
spoken  by  human  lips,  and  bidden  him  take  her,  for 
she  was  his.  Youth  is  full  of  illusions,  but  it  might 
be  pious  to  think  that  this  was  not  one  altogether, 
since  not  a  hair  of  our  heads  but  is  numbered,  and 
falls  in  its  time  as  surely  as  the  empire  of  centuries. 

Coming  to  herself  with  a  slight  start,  Mary  with 
drew  her  glance  from  Atherton,  and  saying,  with  some 
embarrassment,  that  her  father  being  so  quiet  now, 
her  presence  was  no  longer  required,  but  that  Mr. 
Atherton  could  call  her  again  if  it  should  be  necessary, 


THE    FOREST.  269 

rose,  not  without  an  air  of  deep  modesty.  She  was 
obliged  to  pass  him.  He  sprang  up  and  intercepted 
her,  seizing  her  hand. 

"You  must  not  go,"  he  exclaimed,  with  an  odd 
mixture  of  peremptoriness  and  diffidence,  "till  you 
have  consented  to  what  your  father  requires." 

"  I  must  not  go !  "  she  repeated  with  astonishment. 
"Must  not,  and  shall  not,"  he  answered  with  in 
creasing  hardihood.     "  Nay,  I  must  not  hurt  this  soft 
hand ! "   -  He  threw  his  arms  dexterously  round  her 
waist  and  held  her  imprisoned  fast. 

"This  from  you!  Fie!  Alban,  release  me  this 
instant !  " 

"  Certainly  not." 
"Why,  what  does  it  mean?" 
"  Ah,  Mary,  you  know  what  it  means  as  well  as  I. 
I  love  you.     But  I  do  not  plead  that  now.     I  point 
to  your  father,  and  claim  you  in  the  name  of  filial 
duty.      If  you  wish  him  to  recover,  you  must  set  his 
mind  at  rest  on  this  point.     You  understood  him  very 
well  to-night;  you  knew  all  about  it  before." 

She  was  perfectly  passive,  but  hung  down  her 
head  as  if  ashamed.  She  even  wept. 

"Will  you  make  me  guilty  of  treachery  to  my 
friend?" 

"Jane?    She  is  my  sister.     A  sacred  horror  fills 


270  THE    FOKEST. 

me  at  the  bare  thought  of  loving  her  otherwise. 
Besides,  I  have  made  a  vow  never- to-  nraj£y~  an  alien 
in  faith :  —  long  since  I  made  it,  when  I  deemed  you 
were  in  a  cloister." 

11  Good  Heaven  !  "  she  cried,  with  a  crimson  blush, 
turning  to  him  with  infinite  spirit,  and  very  nearly 
disengaging  herself.  —  "  Let  me  go,  Alban,  or  you  will 
force  me  to  take  a  vow  for  which  you  will  be  sorry." 

"  You  will  not  be  so  rash,  I  am  sure,  as  to  take  a 
vow  without  the  advice  of  a  director,"  replied  he,  with 
a  mocking  smile. 

"  Utter  nothing  rashly,",  said  a  voice  behind  them. 

Both  looked  back,  and  Mary  instinctively  turned 
to  Alban,  with  a  quick  motion,  as  if  she  were  about 
to  hide  ner  face  in  his  bosom.  The  missionary  stood 
in  the  door-way,  with  folded  arms,  and  eyes  fixed  on 
the  ground. 

"Utter  nothing  rashly,  my  daughter.  And  do 
you,  Mr.  Atherton,  release  this  young  lady,  whose 
modesty  suffers  by  your  rude  constraint." 

The  Jesuit  spoke  with  that  authority  which  they 
say  the  priest  never  loses,  and  Mary  gave  a  little 
start,  as  if  expecting  to  be  immediately  released.  But 
the  blood  of  all  his  Puritan  sires  boiled  in  young 
Atherton's  veins,  and  they  were  prouder _than ;  Cas- 
tilians,  calm  as  Indian  Sachems.  He  was  flushed,  too, 


THE    FOREST.  271 

with  tlie  consciousness  of  successful  love  —  for  every 
word  —  every  movement  —  of  Mary's  had  unwittingly 
betrayed  her  affection  —  and  strong  in  her  father's 
dying  wish.  Instead  of  releasing  her,  he  seated  him 
self  defyingly  in  the  one  wicker  chair  which  the 
room  contained,  and  drew  her  down  upon  his  knee, 
in  spite  of  her  bashful  resistance. 

"Alban —  this  is  really  unkind  —  in  the  presence 
of  another !      For  shame,  Alban,  unclasp  me." 

"  Shame  and  you  cannot  come   together,"  replied 
Alban,  tenderly. 

"  You    disobey  Father    Smith  ! "    she   exclaimed. 
""In   the   presence   of  the   father  who   begat  you, 
and  who  gave  you   to   me,  no  man  shall   take  you 
'from    my    arms,"    whispered    Atherton: — "least    of 
all   a   religious,    who   dare   not    touch   you,    even   to 
save,  nor,  gray-haired   as  he  is,  lift  his  eyes  to  you 
now.     I  dare,"  he  added,  triumphantly  tightening  that 
gentle  but   irresistible   embrace   which  took  away  all 
her    strength,    moral  as    well    as   physical.      "  For   I 
know  that  your  heart  is  mine,  nor  do  you  deny  it ; 
and  that  only  plea  which  you  urge  for  refusing  me 
your  troth,   is  generous,   no   doubt  —  noble   and  un 
selfish  —  but  one  that  I  cannot  admit  for  a  moment." 
"It  is  not  the  only  one,"  she  murmured.      "Can 
I  do  what  Mr.  Atherton  asks?"  she  said,  addressing 


272  THE    FOREST. 

the  missionary  in  an  humbled  voice,  and  turning  her 
head  slightly  towards  him. 

"Of   course.      That  is  —  you   are   bound   by  no 
vow?"  added  the  Jesuit  cautiously. 

"  But  to  disregard  what  may  have  been  inspirations 
of  grace,  father  ?  " 

"  The  will  of  God  is  more  clearly  declared  by  His 
providence  than  by  such  interior  movements,  which 
may  proceed  from  nature  after  all,  or  even  be  illusions 
of  Satan,  to  inflate  us  with  pride  and  procure  our 
fall,"  said  the  missionary,  with  a  shade  of  sternness. 
"Fain  would  I  have  decided  this  in  retirement  — 
with  prayer  and  wise  counsel,"  said  Mary,  glancing  at 
her  father's  pallid  face,  all  whitely-dark  upon  the 
whiter  pillows. 

"Every  such  promise,"  said  the  priest  with  em 
phasis,  "implies  the  condition  that  you  do  not  after 
wards  elect  a  higher  state.  You  may  safely  give  it, 
therefore,  my  daughter,  if,  apart  from  that  holy 
aspiration  of  yours,  you  are  willing  to  obey  your 
father." 

"Of  course  I  am,"   she- replied.      "Now,  Mr.  Al- 
ban"  —  speaking  low,  "for  mercy's  sake,  let  me  go." 
He   kissed  her  so  softly  that  she  was  barely  con 
scious  of  it,    and   released  her.     She   fled   with   pre 
cipitation. 


THE    FOKEST.  273 


CHAPTER    XVII. 

The  principle  and  foundation  is,  that  man  was  created  to  know,  praise, 
and  serve  God,  and,  by  so  doing,  to  gain  eternal  life  for  himself. 

Spiritual  Exercises. 

"PECtfAVl?"    said  the  young  man,  in  a  half-penitent 
tone. 

"  Vere  peccdsti,  fill  mi, "  replied  the  priest,  with  a 
slight,  grave  smile.  "  May  He  pardon  you  who 
knows  our  fragility." 

"Tell  me  as  a  friend  wherein  I  have  sinned." 

"  As  a  friend  I  have  no  cognizance  of  the  affair," 
replied  the  Jesuit. 

"  As  a  director  then,"  answered  Alban,  with 
humility. 

"  Your  rashness,  my  son,  may  have  spoiled  a  saint. 
A  firmer  soul,  or  one  more  resolute  to  mortify  her 
own  will,  I  have  almost  never  known  in  a  neophyte." 

"In  the  marriage  state  also  she  may  aspire  after 
that  perfection,"  replied  the  young  man. 

12* 


274  THE    FOEEST. 

"No  doubt  there  will  be  room  for  it,"  answered 
the  Jesuit,  smiling  again. 

"I  would  never  have  interfered  with  a  divine 
vocation,"  said  the  young  man,  "but  when  I  found 
that  she  was  not  insensible  to  love  — " 

"  That  proves  nothing,"  interrupted  the  missionary, 
with  some  quickness  —  "  nothing  against  her  vocation. 
There  is  no  conceivable  weakness  on  the  side  of  na 
ture,  but  consists  with  a  true  vocation,  if  God  supply 
the  necessary  grace." 

"I  am  aware,  father,  that  we  may  be  called  to 
renounce  our  dearest  affections  —  but  I  thought  I 
perceived  that  generosity  towards  another,  not  a  pure 
aspiration  after  a  more  perfect  state,  was  the  source 
of  Mary's  resistance.  Then  I  felt  warranted  in  exert 
ing  a  gentle  violence  in  pleading  the  claim  which  her 
father's  choice  had  given  me.  If  she  had  felt  that  I 
wronged  her,  she  might  have  escaped  —  yes  —  at  any 
moment." 

"In  a  very  few  years  all  these  earthly  loves  will 
be  over,  and  if  you  are  so  happy  as  to  reach  Heaven, 
a  long  vista  of  bliss  in  the  enjoyment  of  God  himself 
will  lie  before  you :  —  these  things  will  appear  very 
insignificant  to  you  then,"  said  the  priest,  laying  his 
hand  on  the  young  man's  shoulder. 

"But  we  are  on  the   earth  now,"   replied  Alban, 


THE    FOREST.  275 

"  and  after  all,  it  seems  that  Miss  De  Groot  lias  still 
the  right  to  seek  the  cloister,  if  she  is  really  called 
to  it." 

"  Had  she  pledged  you  her  faith  at  the  altar,  she 
would  still  possess  that  right,  my  young  friend.  So 
long  as  she  is  bat  promised,  not  rendered,"  added  the 
priest  with  emphasis,  "  she  may  elect  to  give  herself 
to  the  Lord.  Kemember  that,  my  son  !  " 

"I  will,"  answered  the  youth,  with  spirit.  "At 
the  same  time,  I  am  not  sorry  for  having  evinced  to 
her  a  manly  ardour,  which  I  entirely  felt." 

"Well,  I  do  not  think  there  was  any  sin  in  that," 
replied  the  Jesuit. 

But  when  the  next  day  Atherton  signified  his 
desire  to  use  the  present  opportunity  of  advancing 
beyond  the  threshold,  where  a  singular  Providence 
had  so  long  detained  him,  the  good  father  interposed 
a  caution. 

"Your  wish  is  laudable  —  certainly  you  stand 
in  need  of  all  the  graces  which  our  good  God  is 
ready  to  bestow  —  but  this  is  a  great  step.  It  imports 
greatly  to  your  spiritual  welfare  that  you  should  take 
it  with  a  soul  fully  purified  from  the  dross  of  earthly 
desires,  and  fitted  by  divine  contemplation  to  breathe 
the  air  of  Heaven,  which,  in  no  figurative  sense,  you 
will  then  respire.  I  would  advise  you  to  make  a 


276  THE    FOREST. 

little  retreat  from  the  society  of  your  friends,  and 
pass  a  few  days  in  meditation  and  prayer." 

"  Most  willingly,"  said  Atherton,  "  provided  I  need 
not  desert  my  nightly  post  by  our  patient's  side." 

"  That  need  not  interfere  with  this  holy  prepara 
tion,"  replied  the  Jesuit.  "  Eather  it  is  in  perfect 
accordance  with  the  ideas  of  our  holy  father,  Ignatius, 
that  all  the  mere  outward  circumstances  of  retreat  be 
dispensed  with,  if  occasion  serves.  You  may  even 
meditate  with  peculiar  profit  by  the  bedside  of  a  sick, 
and  perhaps  dying  man ;  and  during  the  day,  some 
portion  of  which  you  will  need  for  repose,  I  can  secure 
you  as  perfect  a  seclusion  as  you  may  desire." 

In  fine,  this  was  carried  into  effect.  At  a  distance 
of  half  a  mile  from  the  mission-house,  in  a  grove 
overlooking  the  lake,  stood  a  lonely  cabin  which  had 
been  for  a  long  time  uninhabited.  The  walk  leading 
to  it  was  secluded,  lying  first  over  the  hillocked  bury- 
ing-ground  of  the  tribe,  then  through  a  thick  wood, 
and  lastly  along  the  lake  shore.  It  was  here  that 
Alban  took  up  his  quarters  during  the  day.  His 
meals  were  brought  to  him  by  an  Indian  boy.  He 
came  to  the  mission  only  at  night,  where  he  saw  no 
one  but  Mr.  De  Groot  and  the  missionary. 

Mr.  De  Groot  had  generally  as  many  as  two  par 
oxysms  of  his  terrible  nervous  disorder  during  the 


THE    FOKEST.  277 

twenty -four  hours;  and  they  occurred  almost  invari 
ably  in  the  night;  but  Alban's  assistance  was  all 
that  he  now  required,  or  even  admitted.  Old  Yin- 
cent's  practice  was  simple;  at  every  recurrence  of 
the  frightful  spasms,  he  heroically  increased  the  dose 
of  the  powerful  agent  by  which  he  had  once  succeeded 
in  controlling  them,  and  thus  procured  a  remission 
for  the  time,  although  the  patient's  strength  grew 
daily  less.  It  was  in  this  awful  sick-room  that  Alban 
made  the  meditations  on  Death  and  Judgment,  and 
the  State  of  the  Lost  —  those  great  certainties,  the 
former  two  of  which  must  happen  to  all,  sooner  or 
later,  and  the  last  of  which  may  be  the  portion  of 
any  one,  for  aught  he  knows.  But  it  is  not  our 
intention  to  follow  our  hero  through  the  course  of  ..._ 
tEiiTcelebrated  discipline  -JX  the  Organon  of  the  Will, 
as  it  may  be  termed  —  the  spiritual  geometry  of  LO 
YOLA,  by  which  the  mind  is  truly  purified  from  its 
idols,  the  passions  are  calmed,  and  the  voice  of  God 
is  made  audible  in  the  soul. 

The  purgative  and  lustral  efficacy  of  meditation 
and  solitude  was  admitted  even  by  the  Pagans;  but 
the  acts  and  sufferings  of  the  Man-God,  the  ineffable 
sweetness  of  His  human  character,  and  the  infinite 
majesty  of  His  divine  one,  alone  furnish  the  matter 
on  which  this  truly  spiritual  exercise  can  be  employed, 


278  THE    FOREST. 

so  as  to  transform  and  sanctify  the  heart.  We  are 
strongly  persuaded  that  many  —  many  —  of  our  Prot 
estant  friends  are  so  sincerely  desirous  of  loving  God, 
that  if  they  could  only  know  what  a  retreat  is,  they 
would  immediately  seek  admission  to  a  Church  which 
alone  possesses  or  knows  how  to  use  so  powerful  a 
means  of  grace. 

While  Atherton  was  thus  in  retreat,  our  fair 
friends  (to  whom  we  must  needs  return)  never  saw 
him,  unless  we  may  except  the  passing  and  involun 
tary  glimpse  which  Mary  had  of  him  at  mass. 

The  latter  was  with  her  father  nearly  all  day  — 
for  occasionally  he  would  send  her  away  for  exercise, 
when  Margaret  took  her  place,  apparently  to  Mr.  De 
Groot's  great  content.  There  was  this  peculiarity  in 
his  disorder,  that  he  suffered  from  it  most  at  night, 
the  day  being  comparatively  a  period  of  remission. 
Certainly,  one  would  have  supposed  that  the  cares 
and  society  of  his  daughter  would  have  been  welcome 
to  him  in  these  hours,  if  in  any;  yet  it  was  evident 
that  he  rather  suffered  than  enjoyed  her  presence. 
Nevertheless,  he  was  nervous  if  he  missed  her  at  the 
hour  when  she  ought  to  appear,  but  as  soon  as  he  was 
satisfied  of  her  being  in  the  mission,  he  really  seemed 
to  prefer  that  she  should  be  out  of  his  sight.  Some 
of  her  attitudes  and  movements  around  the  room, 


THE    FOREST.  279 

or  near  his  bed,  appeared  to  annoy  or  startle  him 
more  than  others.  Many  sick  persons  are  singularly 
fastidious  on  this  head,  especially  those  afflicted  with 
nervous  diseases ;  but  it  is  commonly  some  want  of 
grace,  some  angularity  of  posture,  some  awkward  or 
hurried  motion,  that  offends  them.  What  displeased 
(if  it  was  displeasure)  or  at  all  events  disagreeably 
affected  her  father  in  Mary  De  Groot,  was,  on  the 
contrary,  a  singular  and  characteristic  elegance  in  her 
manner  of  sitting  by  his  bedside,  a  noble  turn  of  the 
head,  if  some  slight  noise  attracted,  or  some  one 
addressed  her,  or  the  virgin  grace  of  motion  that 
bore  her  to  the  table  to  get  something  that  he 
wanted,  or  brought  her  to  his  side  if  he  called.  More 
over,  at  that  time  our  young  ladies  had  not  learned 
to  supply,  by  means  mysterious  to  us,  the  absence  of 
a  charm  which  in  other  climes  all-bounteous  Nature 
has  bestowed  upon  the  earliest  period  of  womanhood ; 
but  Mary  De  Groot,  though  slim,  straight,  and  elegant 
in  figure,  inherited  with  the  recent  Milesian  and 
Provengal  blood  that  flowed  in  her  veins,  a  richer  gift 
of  form  than  her  American  ancestry  would  have 
secured,  so  that,  as  the  bud  suggests  the  rose,  she 
might  naturally  remind  her  father  of  her  at  whose 
breast  in  infancy  she  hung,  and  seemed  involuntarily 
to  announce  herself  as  the  brooding  songstress  of  some 


280  THE    FOREST. 

future  nest,  charming  the  heart  of  her  mate  and  giving 
food  to  her  little  ones.  And  this  certainly  should 
have  pleased  him;  yet,  in  fact,  it  filled  him,  as  we 
say,  with  a  strange  trouble.  But  nothing  annoyed,  or 
more  accurately,  frightened  him  more  than  to  hear 
her  once  speak  French  to  Father  Smith,  whose  native 
language  it  was,  calling  him  simply,  "  Mon  pere." 

11  My  child  !  "  he  exclaimed,  in  a  strange  agitation, 
"  Never  do  that !  " 

Mary  herself  was  pensive,  in  despite  of  a  certain 
happiness  which  must  have  coloured  the  existence  of  a 
girl  just  betrothed  to  one  that  she  loved.  It  was  an 
agitated  kind  of  happiness,  no  doubt,  mixed  with 
many  fears,  and  these  did  not  proceed  altogether  from 
the  ordinary  source.  A  generous  purpose,  which  she 
had  entertained  from  the  first  rencontre  with  the  two 
cousins  at  Lake  Pheasant,  in  the  outset  of  her  journey, 
was  still  in  her  mind. 

The  absence  of  her  cousin,  and  the  sick-room  occu 
pations  of  her  friend,  left  Jane  quite  alone,  except 
when  Mary  came  out  for  her  daily  walk,  at  her  father's 
bidding.  For  Jane  of  course  accompanied  her,  and  of 
the  two  seemed  most  glad.  The  third  day,  (it  was 
Saturday,)  they  wandered  further  than  usual,  for 
Mary  had  been  sent  forth  at  an  earlier  hour,  and  the 
afternoon  was  beautifully  soft.  They  made  a  circuit 


THE    FOKEST.  281 

by  some  fields  of  yellow  stubble,  all  flickering  with 
high-lows,  and  through  a  bit  of  woods  alive  with 
woodpeckers  and  squirrels  ;  they  flirred  away  some 
partridges,  in  crossing  a  long  reach  of  marshy  ground, 
thick  with  bushes ;  then  they  came  upon  a  region  of 
tall  blackberry  bushes,  but  all  stripped  of  their  fruit 
by  the  frost.  Jane  enjoyed  this  walk,  which  seemed 
easy  .after  their  recent  experience. 

On  the  edge  of  the  prairie,  where  the  grove  of 
cedars  swept  away  in  a  half-moon  shape,  they  sat  down 
on  a  log  to  rest,  and  Mary  told  Jane  of  her  engage 
ment,  who  fairly  fainted. 

Mary  prevented  her  from  falling,  and  laid  her  gently 
down  in  the  grass.  A  spring  gurgled  near.  In  the 
forest  one  is  seldom  wanting.  Mary  ran  and  filled  her 
hands  with  water.  She  succeeded  in  bringing  enough 
to  dash  on  her  friend's  face.  She  loosened  the  belt 
of  her  brown  linen  habit. 

"You  must  think  me  completely  treacherous," 
cried  Mary  De  Groot,  as  soon  as  her  friend  was  suffi 
ciently  recovered  to  listen  to  her.  "  You  have  fallen  a 
sacrifice,  Jane,  to  Alban's  principles.  You  are  a  great 
deal  more  captivating  than  I  am,  and  he  feels  it,  I  am 
sure.  Had  you  been  a  Catholic,  and  not  his  cousin,  I 
should  have  had  no  chance." 

At  first  Jane  regarded  her  with  looks  of  passionate 


282  THE    FOREST. 

aversion,  then  burst  into  tears,  hid  her  face,  and  im 
plored  her  to  keep  her  secret. 

"I  am  a  woman,"  said  Mary,  "and  have  some 
regard  for  the  honour  of  my  sex." 

"He  already  knows,"  said  Jane,  wildly. 

"That  you  like  him,"  answered  her  rival  caress 
ingly.  "But  that  is  nothing.  Alban  has  no  idea,  I 
am  sure,  of  the  possible  strength  of  our  feelings  in 
such  a  case." 

"At  least  you  love  him?  —  You  will  confess  it 
now,"  said  Jane,  turning  away  her  face. 

"I  share  that  weakness  with  you,"  replied  Mary, 
blushing. 

"  Three  days  ago  you  denied  it." 

"I  only  denied  being  jealous  of  you." 

"  You  knew  you  had  no  reason ! "  said  Jane,  bit 
terly. 

"Nay!  I  was  not  so  vain.  But  I  sincerely  pre 
ferred  your  happiness  to  my  own.  It  was  really  so. 
My  purpose  in  saying  what  I  did,  was  to  warn  you  of 
the  precipice  on  which  you  were  playing,  unless  you 
opened  your  mind  to  the  claims  of  our  faith.  I  had 
firmly  resolved  not  to  be  your  rival,  but  every  moment, 
involuntarily,  I  was  one." 

"You  always  claim  for  yourself  a  generosity 
which  is  impossible,"  cried  Jane,  rising  and  seating 


THE    FOREST.  283 

herself  upon   the  log  again,   with  an  air  of  infinite 
haughtiness. 

"  Oh,  yes !  it  is  possible,"  Mary  answered,  leaning 
against  the  great  cedar  trunk,  with  a  simple  and  en 
gaging  composure.  "  Love  is  every  thing  to  you.  To 
me  it  ought  to  be  very  little.  According  to  my  faith, 
the  life  of  the  cloistered  nun  is  the  highest  destiny  of 
woman.  IfJ  by  an  act  of  perfect  abnegation,  I  could 
gain  the  grace  to  see  my  vocation  to  it  clear,  I  should 
be  truly  happy.  And,  besides,  I  love  you  dearly  — 
though  you  hate  me,  of  course,  dear  Jane :  —  I  know 
you  do." 

"  Every  word  of  yours  is  a  stab,"  said  Jane. 

"I  do  not  mean  it.  I  don't  say  these  things  to 
triumph  over  you.  God  is  my  witness  that  if  my 
resigning  Alban,  and  taking  the  veil,  would  secure 
your  happiness,  —  so  far  as  the  first  goes,  I  am  ready 
to  do  it  now." 

"You  would  go  into  a  convent  in  order  to  leave 
your  betrothed  to  another !  You  do  not  expect  me  to 
believe  that !  "  cried  Jane,  with  irritation. 

"  I  did  not  say  that  precisely,"  answered  Mary  De 
Groot.  "  I  cannot  make  a  religious  profession  without 
a  higher  motive  than  pity  for  a  rival  or  generosity  to 
a  friend  ;  but  my  own  personal  happiness  I  am  willing 
to  give  up.  I  would  cede  my  own  rights,  if  I  could, 


284  THE    FOREST. 

and  make  you  happy.  I  see  that  you  do  not  be 
lieve  it." 

Jane  shook  her  head  incredulously. 

"  You  are  my  friend  and  my  sister,"  pursued  Mary, 
"and  I  know  what  belongs  to  that  character.  We 
have  laid  our  heads  on  the  same  rough  pillow  in  the 
wild  forest  —  why  doubt  that  I  would  suffer  any  thing 
rather  than  rob  you  of  quiet,  happy  sleep,  and  make 
you  shed  bitter  tears  in  secret  ?  Do  I  not  know  what 
it  is?" 

"You!" 

"Yes.  Think  you  my  attachment  to  your  cousin 
is  of  no  older  date  than  our  forest  journey?  Yet  I 
chose  you  to  be  my  companion,  although  I  saw  you 
were  a  rival,  and  felt  how  dangerous  a  one.  And  I  did 
not  love  you  then  as  I  do  now,  Jane.  Did  I  not  yield 
to  you  on  all  occasions,  till  to  do  so  longer  would  have 
seemed  —  yes,  would  have  been  —  a  deeper  coquetry  ? 
Have  I  taken  advantage  of  your  being  a  Protestant  ? 
I  assure  you,  on  the  honour  of  a  maiden,  that  when 
Alban  declared  his  attachment,  I  would  not  listen 
to  him  at  all,  until  he  said  that  he  had  made  a 
vow  never  to  marry  an  alien  in  faith.  Could  I  do 
more  ?  " 

"You  have  been  very  fair  and  generous,"  said 
Jane,  convinced  in  spite  of  herself.  "But  I  did  not 


THE    FOREST.  285 

believe  that  Alban  could  be  so  bigoted,"  added  she, 
resentfully. 

"  It  is  not  bigotry :  —  it  is  good  sense  and  good 
principle,  as  you  yourself  will  allow,  if  you  reflect," 
replied  Mary,  with  a  sweet  firmness,  seeing  that  Jane 
was  now  come  to  the  point  where  she  could  bear  to 
hear  the  truth. 

Jane  did  not  dispute  on  this  question. 

"What  are  these  strong  affections  given  us  for?" 
pursued  her  friend. 

"  To  make  us  unhappy ! "  said  Jane,  bursting  into 
tears. 

"Well,  it  is  not  just  to  make  us  happy  —  that's 
certain.  I  have  been  asking  myself  the  question  these 
last  two  days.  I  always  had  the  impression  before, 
that  if  I  ever  married,  it  would  be  either  because  I 
was  in  love,  or  because  papa  so  much  wished  it.  But 
these  are  not  good  reasons  after  all,  it  seems  to  me, 
unless  being  married  is  going  to  promote  our  spiritual 
good,  and  that  of  others  —  don't  you  think  ?  " 

"  Certainly,"  said  Jane,  with  great  indifference. 

"  How  then  can  it  be  well  to  be  married  to  one  who 
instead  of  helping  you  to  practise  your  religion  (which 
I  take  for  granted  is  true)  is  likely  to  lead  you  astray 
from  it?  And  then  the  others,  for  whose  sake,  the 
catechism  tells  us,  this  holy  state  was  instituted,  how 


286  THE    FOKEST. 

can  they,"  she  continued,  too  innocent  to  blush  — 
how  can  they  —  be  brought  up  in  the  discipline  and 
correction  of  the  Lord,  by  parents  who  are  not  agreed 
what  that  discipline  is,  who  don't  believe  the  same 
faith,  nor  receive  the  same  sacraments,  nor  frequent 
the  same  church,  nor  read  in  the  same  Bible !  Think 
of  my  own  father  and  mother.  Why !  it  does  seem 
to  me  perfectly  absurd." 

Jane  smiled  in  spite  of  herself:  —  "I  never  thought 
of  it,"  said  she,  "  in  that  serious  light." 

"But  is  not  that  the  true  light  in  which  to  view 
it  ?  Is  it  not  degrading  to  live  in  an  union  defrauded 
thus  of  its  real,  holy  end  ?  " 

"  I  have  never  looked  so  far  ahead,"  said  Jane. 

"  Nor  I,  before  these  last  two  days.  I  must  own 
that  I  have  been  thinking  a  good  deal,  in  that  interval, 
of  the  reasons  why  Alban  ought  not  to  marry  you, 
dear  Jane.  But  if  those  reasons  were  away,  I  could 
easily  resolve  to  forego  the  fleeting  joys  of  this  life  " 
—  striking  her  breast  quickly  —her  old  familiar  gesture 
when  deeply  moved —  "  and  seek  my  whole  happiness 
in  God." 

"  But  while  those  reasons  continue,"  said  Jane, 
with  an  undefinable  expression,  "  you  will  not  for 
any  other  motive  draw  back  from  your  engagement  ?  " 

"Ah!  I  —  love  Alban!  "  answered  Mary  De  Groot, 


THE    FOREST.  287 

bending  down  with  a  timid  movement,  and  hiding  her 
face  in  her  hands. 

"  You  are  plighted  to  him,  too ! "  said  Jane,  rather 
severely.  "  Is  that  nothing,  in  your  opinion  ?  " 

"  Nothing,"  said  Mary,  quickly,  "  against  the  call 
of  Heaven." 

"  What  then  has  he  gained  by  your  promise  ?  " 

"  What  has  he  gained  ? "  repeated  Mary,  looking 
up  with  a  wondering  expression  and  a  deep  blush. 
"  It  seems  to  me  that  he  has  gained  every  thing  !  " 

Jane  wept  again.  The  noble  style  of  Mary's 
thoughts  deeply  convinced  her  how  hopeless  had 
been  the  struggle  with  such  a  rival  —  so  much 
worthier  (she  said)  of  Alban  than  herself.  The  .sim 
plicity  of  a  young  girl  and  the  tenderness  of  a  woman 
blended,  too,  so  strangely  with  the  intellectual  vigour 
that  she  had  always  noticed  in  Mary  De  Groot,  and 
with  her  inexplicable  force  of  will.  Mary,  in  truth, 
was  but  half-formed  yet  —  but  the  elements  of  the 
noblest  and  most  captivating  female  character  were 
already  discernible  in  hers.  The  devoted  daughter, 
the  generous  friend,  the  tender  mistress,  and  the 
heroic  Christian,  were  all  there  —  undeveloped  and 
unharmonized,  but  each  true  to  its  type. 


288  THE    FOBEST. 


CHAPTEE    XYIII. 

Behold  in  garments  gay  with  gold 

For  other  spousals  wrought, 
The  Maiden  from  her  father's  house 

With  bridal  pomp  is  brought. 

All  for  Love. 

THE  rapid  course  of  events  had  not  so  much  pity  as 
moved  the  generous  heart  of  Mary  De  Groot.  On 
Sunday  morning  (the  fourth  day  from  their  arrival) 
the  mass  was  late  —  for  the  Indians  came  from  a 
distance  in  the  forest  —  and  Jane  went.  The  forest 
church  was  crowded,  and  with  difficulty  were  the 
family  from  the  mission-house  accommodated  with 
places  close  to  the  rails.  And  lo !  before  the  service 
began,  but  in  presence  of  the  swarthy  congregation 
already  assembled,  Alban,  introduced  into  the  sanc 
tuary,  made  his  public  abjuration  of  the  errors  of 
Protestantism.  /Afterwards,  in  the  midst  of  the  sacred 
pomp  of  the  mass,  —  for  the  Indians  performed  the 
music  of  a  great  French  composer  of  a  century  and 


THE    FOKEST.  289 

a  half  before,  with  wonderful  accuracy  —  at  the  usual 
time,  he  received  the  pledge  of  communion.  It 
affected  Jane  deeply.  The  acolytes,  with  sparkling 
torches,  that  surrounded  the  priest,  the  rich  vestments 
of  the  latter,  the  bell,  the  low  words,  the  white  linen, 
reverently  extended,  the  bent  heads  of  the  children 
of  the  forest,  the  rapt  expression  of  Alban  and  some 
others  who  received,  the  pervading  religious  awe  and 
firm  belief,  united  to  form  an  impression  of  the 
presence  of  the  God  of  Israel  under  a  new  veil,  with 
lingering  fears  of  an  idolatrous  ceremonial.  The 
fervours  and  the  formalities  which  she  witnessed  alike 
perplexed  her.  Was  it,  then,  a  portion  of  the  skies 
let  down  to  earth,  or  an  extension  of  the  old  domain 
of  heathendom?  She  was  completely  lost.  The  old 
certainties  had  been  swept  away,  as  by  a  flood  whereon 
she  floated  as  on  a  wreck. 

A  few  more  days  elapsed,  and  the  termination  of 
Alban's  retreat  restored  him  again  to  their  society. 
Mr.  De  Groot,  who  was  failing  rapidly,  became  anx 
ious  that  the  engagement  between  his  daughter  and 
young  Atherton  should  be  carried  into  immediate 
effect.  Jane's  heart  died  within  her  when  Mary  in 
formed  her  that  this  question  had  been  raised,  and 
was  left  to  Alban's  decision. 

"  You   see   now  that   my  promise  was   something 
13 


290  THE    FOKEST. 

real,"  said  Mary  De  Groot,  who,  of  course,  wept :  and 
Jane,  with  white  lips,  kissed  away  her  tears. 

The  decision,  however,  was  different  from  their 
expectations.  It  might  be  that  in  his  retreat  a  change 
had  come  over  the  spirit  of  young  Atherton's  dream, 
or  it  might  be  merely  that  his  calm  judgment  pre 
vailed  over  the  eagerness  of  youth,  or  that  he  marked 
the  extreme  paleness  of  his  intended  bride  in  leaving 
the  decision  to  him,  or  he  might  have  been  wholly 
influenced  by  the  motives  which  he  assigned,  which 
were  that  he  was  under  age,  that  his  parents  were 
unacquainted  with  his  engagement,  and  that  he  could 
not  marry  to  become  dependent  on  his  father-in-law. 
Mr.  De  Groot  set  aside  these  objections  with  his  usual 
skill.  Atherton,  he  observed,  would  be  of  age  in  a 
month  or  two ;  his  father,  he  knew,  was  very  anxious 
that  his  son's  attachment  to  his  (Mr.  De  Groot's) 
daughter  should  not  miscarry ;  and  the  unpleasant 
situation  in  which  Mary  would  be  left  was  a  sufficient 
excuse  for  neglecting  some  formalities :  as  to  the  de 
pendence,  his  own  death  would  soon  put  his  son-in- 
law  in  possession  of  ample  means.  It  was  very  difficult 
to  resist  this  wish  of  a  father  to  see  his  daughter's 
marriage  accomplished  before  he  breathed  his  last  and 
left  her  among  strangers  in  a  wilderness,  under  the 
sole  protection  of  her  lover. 


THE    FOKEST.  291 

To  satisfy  Mr.  De  Groot,  Alban  proposed  that  they 
should  be  espoused  according  to  the  Eoman  rite,  which 
Father  Smith  had  suggested  was  in  use  among  the 
Indians  ;  Mary  said  —  "  0  my  dear  father  !  let  it  be 
so ! "  —  and  Mr.  De  Groot,  not  without  a  kind  sneer 
at  the  young  man's  frigidity,  acquiesced. 

The  ceremony  took   place   on   the  following   day. 
The  Indian  girls  decked  Mary's  hair  with  the  latest 
blooming  flowers,  of  which  a  few  yet  lingered  in  the 
garden  of  the  mission,  and  made  her  wear  it  on  her 
shoulders  in   their   own  fashion.     They  invested   her 
(for  she  had  no  festive  dress  of  her  own)  with  one  of 
their  tunics   of   crimson   cloth,   embroidered,   like    its 
blue  ga-Jca-ah,  or  skirt,  with  the  richest  wampum,  and 
over  it  threw  one   of  their  square   blue   mantles,  or 
blankets,  having  a  deep  border  of  the  same  brilliant 
work.     Her  shoes  also  being  worn  out,  they  supplied 
her  with  tawny  moccasins  worked  in  gold  beads ;  and 
rich  pantalets  of  crimson  cloth,  fringed  and  profusely 
embroidered  in  the  same  style,  fell  over  her  ankles. 

Mary  submitted  with  an  indifferent  good  grace  to 
be  thus  bedizened,  finding  that  it  pleased  her  Indian 
friends,  who,  after  all,  were  the  society  of  Cedar  Lake. 
She  looked  very  beautiful  and  imposing  in  the  costume, 
-  which  belonged  alone  to  the  daughters  of  the  highest 
chiefs:  her  rich  and  clear  complexion,  deepened  by 


292  THE    FOREST. 

the  sun,  and  her  black  hair  floating  in  massy  waves 
over  the  embroidered  mantle,  consorted  well  with  the 
vivid  colours  prized  by  the  Indian  maids.     The  cere-  \ 
mony  was  almost  a  mortal  blow  to  Jane ;  the  promise 
interchanged  was  absolute;  and  the  solemnity  seemed  x 
little  less  than  their  nuptials. 

While  the  Indian  girls  were  adorning  Mary  for 
her  espousals,  Madeleine,  and  a  sister  of  hers  named 
Catharine,  talked  to  her  of  a  virgin  saint  of  their  own 
nation,  the  martyr  at  once  of  faith  and  purity,  who 
had  suffered  in  the  heathen  times  the  most  cruel 
torments  for  Christ,  and  whose  grave  (the  object  of 
frequent  pilgrimages  by  the  women  of  the  tribe)  was 
some  thirty  or  forty  miles  distant  in  the  forest.  Made 
leine  had  often  before  spoken  of  this  native  St.  Cath 
arine,  and  of  the  miracles  wrought  by  her  intercession 
in  the  cure  of  hopeless  disease.  But  now  all  the  Indian 
girls  said  that  if  the  espoused  Marie  would  make  a 
pilgrimage  to  the  grave  of  the  virgin  Catharine,  per 
form  the  customary  penance,  and  bring  thence  to  her 
father  a  bottle  of  water  from  the  hallowed  spring  in 
which  the  martyr's  blood  had  been  mingled  and  drunk 
by  her  murderers,  it  would  certainly  restore  him. 

They  urged  it  so  much  that  she  mentioned  it  to 
Father  Smith. 

"  It    may   be    that    miraculous    cures    have   been 


THE    FOREST.  293 

wrought  through  the  influence  of  this  martyr's '  pray 
ers,"  replied  the  priest.  "  Mind,  I  say,  it  may  ~be. 
There  is  a  case  of  one  of  our  fathers,  apparently  well 
attested,  and  the  traditions  of  the  tribe  (if  you  trust 
them)  speak  of  many  besides.  At  the  same  time,  my 
dear  child,  I  doubt  the  propriety  of  your  making  such 
a  pilgrimage  just  now." 

A  natural  shame  prevented  her  from  urging  a 
proposal  that  seemed  enthusiastic.  But  a  day  or  two 
after,  her  father  having  failed  steadily,  and  a  deep 
anxiety  about  him  having  taken  possession  of  all,  she 
recurred  to  the  subject  again. 

"I  am  not  of  that  use  to  my  father  which  I  ex 
pected,"  said  the  young  lady.  "  He  is  annoyed,  even 
in  his  present  state  of  weakness,  if  I  attempt  to  take 
any  of  Margaret's  duties  about  him  to  myself.  He 
often  sends  me  away.  Particularly  now  that  Mr. 
Atherton  is  here  in  the  day-time,  I  feel  myself  almost 
an  intruder." 

"What  do  you  infer?" 

"Am  I  not  purposely  left  at  liberty  to  try  this 
means  of  which  our  friends  here  think  so  highly  ?  " 

"You  know  not  what  you  ask." 

"  Yes,  I  know." 

"  Then  you  know  why  I  cannot  approve  it.  These 
severities  are  not  for  you,  my  daughter." 


294  THE    FOREST. 

"  Yet  I  must  do  something  for  my  father,"  replied 
Mary  with  a  sudden  and  unexpected  burst  of  grief. 

"Be  contented,  my  daughter,  with  the  inaction 
which  Providence,  not  your  own  will,  imposes,  and 
which  leaves  you  at  liberty  for  prayer." 

"  What  is  prayer  without  action  ? "  said  Mary. 
"  Pardon  me,  father,  but  I  think  you  are  secretly  of 
my  opinion  —  that  I  ought  to  leave  my  father's  bed 
side  for  a  few  days,  to  make  this  pilgrimage  for  his 
recovery." 

The  missionary  made  no  answer,  and  Miss  De 
Groot  was  obliged  to  rest  content,  obedience  being 
the  first  condition  of  merit. 

She  had  already  commenced  a  novena  to  the 
Blessed  Virgin  and  St.  Eaphael,  whose  feast  occurred 
at  this  time.  St.  Kaphael  was  the  patron  of  travellers, 
and  it  was  by  him  that  the  father  of  Tobias  was  cured. 
Father  Smith  highly  approved  of  the  novena,  and  had 
engaged  the  whole  village  to  join  in  it.  The  Indians 
had  great  faith  in  the  efficacy  of  prayer,  bat  they  also 
thought  that  a  visit  to  the  grave  of  their  own  martyr 
ought  not  to  be  omitted.  On  coming  out  from  the 
exercises  of  the  novena,  which  were  held  in  the  chapel 
at  evening  prayer,  all  the  old  women  surrounded  Mary 
and  urged  her  to  make  the  pilgrimage. 

"  I  can  scarcely  expect  my  prayers  to  be  answered," 


THE    FOREST.  295 

thought  she,  "if  I  neglect  a  means  in  which  these 
simple  people  put  so  much  faith.  What  can  I  do  to 
prevail  on  Father  Smith?" 

One  day  Atherton  was  sitting  as  usual  in  Mr.  De 
Groot's  room,  when  Mary  came  in,  and,  contrary  to 
her  custom  for  the  last  two  or  three  days,  seated 
herself.  Alban  was  a  good  deal  blanched  by  the  con- 
finement,  and  from  the  effect  of  his  retreat.  Mary  was 
struck  with  his  paleness.  About  four  days  had  elapsed 
since  their  espousals,  and  she  had  not  often  looked  at 
her  betrothed.  From  the  effect  of  the  stupifying  drugs 
which  Vincent  was  now  obliged  to  give,  and  from 
weakness,  her  father  dozed.  The  young  spouses  passed 
a  half  hour  (as  they  had  many  before)  in  perfect 
silence. 

"  Bo  you  think  papa  is  any  better  ?  "  asked  Mary 
at  last. 

"The  spasms  are  less  frequent  and  less  violent, 
but  he  is  more  exhausted  by  them." 

"Are  the  medicines  doing  him  any  good?" 

"  They  control  the  spasms." 

"But  they  return  — the  spasms  return;  and  his 
strength  is  almost  gone." 

"It  is  very  true." 

There  was  a  pause. 

"  I  fear  I  shall  disturb  papa  if  I  talk." 


296  THE    FOREST. 

"  Not  at  all,"  said  Atherton,  turning  to  her.  "  He 
takes  no  notice  now,  even  when  awake." 

"Does  he  ever  say  any  thing  to  you  about  the 
future,  Mr.  Alban  ?  —  the  future  life,  I  mean." 

"He  says  that  as  he  came  from  the  hands  of  his 
Maker,  so  he  will  return,  —  that  God  is  the  Father, 
and  Eternity  the  home,  of  the  spirit,  and  so  on." 

"  He  will  die  so,"  said  Mary,  with  emotion. 

"  I  fear  he  will." 

"And  what  then,  Mr.  Alban?" 

"He  that  believeth  not  shall  be  condemned,  and  there 
is  no  other  name  under  Heaven,  whereby  we  must  be 
saved,  but  that  of  Jesus  Christ." 

"  Those  very  words  are  always  ringing  in  my  ear," 
said  Mary.  "  In  a  few  days  —  a  few  days  —  the  fate 
of  my  father  and  your  friend  will  be  fixed  for  ever." 

"  What  can  be  done  ?  "  said  Alban,  gently.  "  Your 
father  has  a  perfectly  clear  apprehension  of  the  prin 
ciple  on  which  salvation  is  offered  in  the  Gospel,  and 
he  rejects  it  as  unworthy  of  his  ideas  of  God." 

"  God  alone  can  change  his  heart,  I  know,  but  then 
we  must  do  every  thing  in  our  power.  And  it  seems 
to  me  that  we  are  doing  nothing  so  long  as  we  leave 
one  reasonable  expedient  untried,"  said  the  young 
girl. 

"  You  mean  something,  Mary,  —  what  is  it  ?  " 


THE    FOREST.  297 

She  told  him  about  the  Indian  saint  —  briefly  but 
warmly.  She  kindled  with  enthusiasm  as  she  ex 
pressed  the  conviction  that  God  would  have  regard 
to  the  honour  paid,  with  a  simple  heart,  to  a  servant 
who  had  hallowed  this  spot  by  her  life  and  her 
death. 

"  But  what  would  you  do  ?  "  demanded  Atherton, 
with  a  very  peculiar  glance  of  his  hollow,  but  bril 
liant  blue  eye,  scanning  her  from  head  to  foot. 

"They  want  me  to  make  a  pilgrimage  to  her 
tomb." 

"And  leave  your  father?" 

"You  are  —  his  son,  and  dearer  to  him,  perhaps, 
than  I  am.  He  will  not  miss  me." 

"  It  is  true  that  you  will  neglect  no  other  office  of 
filial  love  by  performing  this ;  for  he  suffers  you  to 
do  nothing  for  him  ;  —  with  what  obstinacy  he  adheres 
to  that,  I  have  often  been  astonished  to  see,"  observed 
Alban  thoughtfully. 

"  Nay,"  pursued  Mary,  with  unusual  boldness,  "  I 
have  sometimes  thought  that  the  sight  of  me  brought 
on  his  attack." 

"  It  has  looked  like  it  certainly  —  if  the  thing  were 
not  incredible." 

"Who  knows  but  that  it  is  intended  I  shall  be 
free  to  do  this  very  thing?" 

13* 


298  THE    FOEEST. 

"It  is  possible,"  said  the  youth. 

"  Then  you  consent  to  my  going  ?  "  said  she,  joy 
fully. 

"  1 1 "  said  Alban,  his  paleness  yielding  to  a  sudden 
flush. 

"  Two  of  the  girls  will  accompany  me.  You  know 
that  I  am  a  very  good  walker.  It  is  thought  we  can 
return  by  the  third  day." 

"I  do  not  presume  to  think  that  my  consent  is 
necessary.  What  does  Father  Smith  say?  Does  he 
approve  it  ?  " 

"Armed  with  your  approbation,  I  think  I  can 
easily  obtain  his  consent." 

"If  the  Indian  girls  are  accustomed  to  make  this 
pilgrimage,  there  can,  of  course,  be  no  real  danger  in 
it,  for  they  are  carefully  looked  to." 

"The  pilgrimage  is  performed  by  them  with  some 
austere  circumstances,  I  ought  to  say,"  observed  Mary 
in  a  candid  tone. 

"  Ah ! "  said  he,  with  a  quick  look  of  love. 
To  expose  Mary  to  hardship  was  a  penance  almost 
infinitely  more  severe  than  to  take  it  upon  himself. 
Mr.  De  Groot's  seeming  perversity  in  checking  her 
efforts  to  be  of  use  in  his  sick  room  Atherton  had 
never  regretted,  for  the  very  reason  that  it  saved  her,  at 
some  expense  of  feeling,  no  doubt,  from  a  confinement 


THE    FOREST.  299 

so  depressing,  —  and  even  more  than  that.  Those 
frightful  spasms,  which  occurred  more  frequently  than 
she  was  at  all  aware,  were  a  perpetual  strain  upon 
the  nervous  system  of  the  beholder,  that  a  female 
organization  was  ill  adapted  to  bear. 

"If  we  undertake  to  propitiate  Heaven  by  penance, 
the  rudeness  of  physical  suffering  cannot  be  avoided," 
said  he  at  last,  breaking  the  silence  which  these  reflec 
tions  had  occupied. 

"  Of  course  not,"  said  Mary. 

"  You  would  not  take  the  guides  with  you,  I 
suppose  ?  " 

"If  I  go,  I  must  have  no  companions  but  those 
of  my  own  sex,"  the  young  lady  replied. 

"  If  you  go,  pray  for  me  as  well  as  for  your  father, 
at  the  tomb  of  the  martyr,  and  may  your  prayers  be 
as  efficacious  as  they  are  pure." 

Alban's  consent,  in  whatever  spirit  given,  having 
been  thus  obtained,  it  seemed  that  Mary  contrived  to 
overcome  the  objections  of  Father  Smith.  For  on  the 
second  morning  after,  her  father  having  meanwhile 
failed  with  alarming  rapidity,  Miss  De  Groot  was 
missing  at  breakfast,  and  Jane  said  in  answer  to  Alban's 
inquiries,  that  she  had  gone  away  at  least  an  hour 
before  day,  with  the  Indian  girl  Catherine.  He  was 
surprised  at  this  choice  of  a  companion,  for  Catherine 


300  THE    FOKEST. 

was  only  fifteen,  and  questioned  Madeleine  on  the  sub 
ject,  who  answered  coldly  and  briefly.  On  pressing 
the  matter,  he  found  that  Madeleine  had  refused  to 
accompany  Miss  De  Groot,  because  the  latter  wished 
to  take  Mrs.  Duncan,  to  whom  the  proud  young  Indian 
objected,  first  as  an  heretic,  and  then  as  a  married 
woman.  She  deemed  that  the  pilgrimage  should  be 
made  by  the  young  affianced,  with  companions  in  un 
bound  tresses,  after  the  fashion  of  the  forest  maids. 

The  young  squaw's  objection  had  seemed  supersti 
tious  and  uncharitable  to  Miss  De  Groot.  Mary  had 
occupied  her  leisure  at  Cedar  Lake  in  teaching  the 
wife  of  the  trapper  the  elements  of  Christian  Faith. 
Compassion,  indeed,  rather  than  the  need  of  her  ser 
vices,  had  induced  Mary  to  retain  Mrs.  Duncan  after 
her  husband's  departure.  At  the  same  time  she  made 
the  latter  teach  her  in  turn  some  of  her  own  wild  ac 
complishments.  Mrs.  Duncan  could  ride  the  half-wild 
horses  of  the  Indians  without  saddle  or  bridle,  spring 
over  a  fallen  tree  lying  half  her  height,  without  touch 
ing  hand  or  foot,  and  swim  above  or  under  water  — 
which  the  squaws  themselves  could  not.  When  Mary 
was  driven  from  her  father's  room,  having  no  in-door 
resources  at  the  Indian  village,  she  spent  much  of  the 
time,  particularly  the  fine  afternoons,  in  the  open  air 
with  Mrs.  Duncan.  Being  already  a  fearless  horse- 


THE    FOKEST.  301 

woman,  she  soon  learned,  after  the  latter's  example, 
to  ride  a  spirited  horse  on  the  prairie,  holding  on  by 
the  mane  alone.  With  a  steady  brain  and  ready  foot, 
she  could  presently  cross  a  stream  on  a  slender  and 
springing  tree-stem  thrown  across ;  or  bound  over  a 
trunk  that  lay  in  her  path,  without  disarranging  her 
flowing  garments.  After  this  severe  exercise,  (in 
which,  perhaps,  there  mingled  some  thought  of  con 
forming  to  her  father's  idea  of  a  complete  physical 
training,  and  a  feeling  that  she  was  pleasing  him  in 
some  way,)  heated,  but  not  fatigued,  she  bathed  in  the 
river,  as  was  the  custom  of  the  Indian  maidens,  al 
though  the  ancestral  culture,  which  her  brief  convent 
experience  had  naturally  not  enfeebled,  did  not  allow 
her  either  to  join  their  frolicsome  company,  or  imitate 
their  aboriginal  simplicity  of  attire.  The  wife  of  the 
trapper  caught  every  new  idea  with  astonishing  quick 
ness,  and  it  was  curious  to  observe  how  while  the 
mistress  (as  she  might  be  called)  grew  visibly  into  the 
heroic  mould,  the  pupil  softened  with  the  moral  grace, 
of  womanhood. 

But  while  Mary  De  Groot  thus  not  only  main 
tained,  but  actually  invigorated  her  health,  like  a 
young  luxuriant  shoot  that  flourishes  by  the  side  of 
the  decaying  parental  tree,  Alban,  as  we  have  inti 
mated,  lost  ground  sensibly,  and  Jane  wilted.  The 


302  THE    FOREST. 

latter  —  poor  girl! — had  no  other  occupation  at 
Cedar  Lake  but  the  unwholesome  one  of  brooding 
over  her  own  thoughts.  She  was,  of  course,  too  timid 
to  think  of  riding  "  bare-back,"  like  her  friend,  whom 
she  contented  herself  with  watching  apprehensively 
from  under  the  cedars  that  bordered  the  prairie ;  and 
on  the  only  occasion  when  she  ventured  to  bathe, 
came  out  pinched  and  blue,  and  did  not  recover  the 
shock  for  many  hours.  Jane,  indeed,  was  far  from 
well  since  their  arrival  at  the  Indian  village.  It 
affected  her  temper,  and  altered  to  sharpness  the  very 
tones  of  her  once  sweet  and  ear-delighting  voice.  In 
her  intercourse  with  Mary,  apparently  in  her  own 
despite,  she  often  gave  way  to  bursts  of  irritation, 
followed  by  a  spiritless  compunction.  Her  eye  lost 
its  lustre  from  solitary  weeping  and  wakeful  nights, 
and  though  neither  thinness  nor  paleness  could  alto 
gether  annul  the  charm  of  features  so  exquisitely 
regular,  yet  upon  the  whole  —  for  they  had  been 
scarcely  three  weeks  at  Cedar  Lake  —  her  beauty  had 
dimmed  most  perceptibly,  while  that  of  Mary  De 
Groot  was  more  resplendent  than  ever. 


THE    FOREST.  303 


CHAPTEK    XIX. 

I'  dico  a'miei  pensier:  Non  molto  andremo 

D'amor  parlando  omai ;  che  '1  duro  e  greve 

Terreno  incarco,  come  fresca  neve 

Si  va  struggendo :  onde  noi  pace  avremo  : 

Perche  con  lui  cadra  quella  speranza, 

Che  ne  fe  vaneggiar  si  lungamente ; 

E  '1  riso,  e  '1  pianto,  o  la  paura,  e  1'ira. 

PETRARCA. 

I  say  to  my  thoughts :  We  sha'  n't  much  longer  go 
Speaking  of  love  henceforth  ;  since,  full  of  woe, 
This  earthly  load,  like  to  the  fresh-fall'n  snow 
Dissolving  goes :  whence  we  true  peace  shall  know : 
For  with  it  that  fond  hope  shall  disappear, 
Which  made  us  rave  so  long  and  vainly  here  ; 
—  The  smile,  the  tear,  the  anger,  and  the  fear. 

Old  Translation. 


PETRARCH,  perhaps,  is  in  Heaven  with  his  Laura, 
where,  if  so,  he  sees  that  Sommo  Ben,  to  whom,  he 
says,  her  earthly  beauty  directed  him.  Sweet  are 
his  songs,  and  (which  we  have  not  seen  noticed) 
breathe  a  healthful  melancholy,  that,  amidst  the  ex 
quisite  lingering  over  earthly  charms,  more  than 
attests  the  vanity  of  such  pursuit.  For  we  do  not 


304  THE    FOREST. 

forget  that  Petrarch,  the  friend  of  so  many  Popes, 
and  crowned  with  the  laurel,  at  Kome,  on  Easter 
Day,  1341,  with  solemn  pomp  and  great  concourse, 
and  the  applause  of  the  Senate  and  the  people  —  was 
ours.  But  the  aim  of  poetry  in  reference  to  the  pas 
sions,  is  a  mystery  beyond  this  age. 

The  novena  had  commenced  on  the  Feast  of  St. 
Eaphael,  the  patron  of  travellers  and  angel  of  healing, 
and  was  to  terminate  on  that  of  All  Saints.  The 
exercises  began  every  evening  with  the  hymn  Veni 
Creator  Spiritus  ;  for  the  principal  object  was  to  obtain 
for  the  dying  guest  of  the  tribe  the  grace  of  conver 
sion.  The  Litany  of  the  Saints,  the  Eosary,  the 
Salve  Regina,  and  a  short  meditation  by  Father  Smith, 
were  concluded  by  the  magnificent  function  of  the 
Benediction  —that  blending  of  sacred  pomp  and  deep 
tenderness.  Nothing  could  exceed  the  fervour  of  the 
Indians,  both  men  and  women. 

Jane  was  an  interested  spectator.  Her  mind  was 
naturally  drawn  to  the  subject  which  ever  affords  a 
resource  to  the  disappointed  affections,  and  to  women 
often  the  only  one.  The  sight  of  a  whole  population 
energizing  in  prayer,  so  perseveringly,  for  a  single, 
unselfish  object,  excited  her  sympathy,  in  the  same 
way,  probably,  that  it  would  have  been  excited  by 
the  contagious  feeling  of  a  revival ;  but  the  invoca- 


THE    FOREST.  805 

tion  of  the  Divine  Spirit  by  that  simple  and  fervent 
congregation,  was  surely  not  without  its  effect.  The 
exhortations  of  Father  Smith,  which  she  began  to 
understand,  containing  no  direct  argument,  but  many 
explanations  of  the  doctrines  of  his  faith,  sank  silently 
into  her  mind  and  heart,  like  a  gentle  shower,  soften 
ing  and  washing  away  her  prejudices  before  she  was 
aware. 

It  was  singular  that  two  features  of  the  religion  of 
her  friends,  which  at  first  had  seemed  repulsive,  the 
one  to  her  reason  and  the  other  to  her  heart,  had 
acquired  a  sort  of  charm  for  her.  These  were  the 
dogma  of  the  Eeal  Presence,  and  the  principle  of 
asceticism,  including  celibacy  and  the  convent  life. 

The  victim  herself  of  passion,  she  sought  the  sup 
port  of  an  unbending  rule ;  and,  with  the  unsatisfied 
craving  of  a  disappointed  heart,  looked  for  something 
substantial  in  Christ,  where  hitherto  she  had  been 
contented  with  an  image  of  her  own  creating.  The 
immense  difference  between  an  ideal  object  of  love  — • 
the  projected  eidolon  of  a  tender  fancy  —  and  a  real, 
breathing  lover,  with  an  independent  life,  who  came 
and  went,  spake  or  was  silent,  caressed  or  refrained 
from  caressing,  according  to  the  laws  of  his  own  being, 
and  not  the  wish  of  hers,  was  a  matter  of  experience 
to  her.  She  knew  that  the  last  was  life;  the  first  a 


306  THE    FOEEST. 

hollow  and  exhausting  fantasy.  At  Benediction,  when 
all  but  herself  were  bent  in  adoration  of  the  Blessed 
Sacrament,  Jane  felt  a  similar  difference  in  the  things 
of  faith. 

Then  the  life  of  the  convent  appeared  to  her  an 
image  of  peace.  Its  tranquillity,  its  regularity,  its 
unwearied  devotions,  its  seclusion,  all  which  Mary  De 
Groot  had  vividly  described  to  her,  offered  to  her 
tempest-tossed  spirit  a  haven  of  rest.  If  she  were  only 
a  Eoman  Catholic,  which,  to  be  sure,  she  could  never 
be,  she  could  be  at  peace  in  the  cloister,  she  thought, 
away  from  that  world  which  had  disappointed  her,  and 
where  every  thing  now  wore  the  most  cheerless  aspect. 
A  sense  of  shame,  which  always  mingles  in  a  woman's 
disappointment,  made  solitude  seem  attractive,  and 
society,  where  so  many  would  suspect  her  secret, 
terrible. 

The  power  which  Alban  had  obtained  over  Jane's 
mind,  had  long  been  at  work  to  modify  her  opinions. 
His  explanations  always  seemed  to  her  clear;  his 
arguments  always  convincing,  even  when  she  did  not 
accept  his  conclusions.  If  this  had  been  the  case  even 
when  his  ultimate  conclusion  had  been  repugnant  to 
her  wishes,  how  much  more  when  it  appeared  to  her 
as  a  plank  of  safety  in  the  shipwreck  of  her  happiness, 
and  almost,  as  she  fancied,  of  her  fame. 


THE    FOREST.  307 

The  great  thing  which  troubled  Jane  was  the 
invocation  of  Saints,  which,  in  spite  of  every  thing 
that  she  had  heard  said  in  its  defence,  appeared  to 
infringe  on  the  sole  confidence  due  to  the  One  Media 
tor.  She  expressed  this  warmly  to  Alban  as  they 
walked  in  the  garden  after  tea,  on  the  second  even 
ing  after  Mary's  departure,  when  they  happened  to 
be  speaking  of  the  devotions  of  the  novena. 

"  I  comprehend  your  feeling,  for  I  once  had  it 
strongly  myself,"  said  Alban.  "Yet  at  that  very 
time  I  did  not  love  Jesus  Christ  so  much  as  I  do 
now,  when  I  invoke  His  holy  Mother  and  the  Saints 
every  day.  Solvitur  arnbulando,  my  dear  Jane ; 
which  means  that  there  are  certain  speculative  diffi 
culties  which  are  best  solved  by  experiment :  that 
very  practice  which  seems  to  you  adverse  to  the 
prerogatives  of  the  One  Mediator,  springs,  in  truth, 
from  the  strength  of  our  confidence  in  His  mediation. 
He  has  said  that  His  saints  should  reign  with  Him; 
we  believe  that  they  really  do.  Every  prayer  to  a 
saint,  therefore,  is  an  acknowledgment  of  the  truth, 
the  power,  and  the  infinite  merits  of  Christ!  " 

"Alas!"  exclaimed  Jane,   "if  I  only  knew  what 
to  believe ! " 

"You    have    arrived    at    that   doubt,   well    enter 
tained,   which,   as  a  great    philosopher    has    said,   is 


308  THE    FOKEST. 

the  first  step  to  knowledge,"  Alban  replied,  with 
calmness. 

Margaret  Dolman  passed  them  in  the  moonlight, 
and  entered  the  mission. 

"  If  I  could  but  feel  as  simple  a  faith  as  that  girl  I  " 
pursued  Jane,  sighing,  and  seating  herself  on  the 
threshold  of  the  house.  "  Do  you  remember,  Alban," 
she  continued  abruptly,  making  room  for  him,  — 
"  how  we  used  to  sit  together  on  the  door-sill  at  Aunt 
Fanny's  ?  or  have  you  quite  forgotten  those  days  ?  " 

"  They  are  not  easily  forgotten,"  he  replied,  thank 
ing  her  with  a  slight  bow  for  the  offered  place,  but  not 
taking  it.  "  We  were  children  then." 

"  I  wish  I  were  a  child  again  at  Aunt  Fanny's !  " 
exclaimed  Jane,  spreading  out  her  dress  with  a  quick 
movement,  so  as  to  fill  the  whole  door- way.  She  laid 
her  head  on  her  knee  and  sobbed. 

"What  shall  I  say  to  you,  my  sister  —  my  beloved 
sister  and  playmate  ? "  cried  Alban  in  a  soft  voice, 
dropping  on  one  knee  by  her  side  upon  the  broad  stone 
step,  and  caressing  her  head.  "  If  wishing  could  make 
us  children  again,  I  too !  But  time  past  never  returns. 
Let  us  use  the  present  well.  Our  youth  is  with  us 
now,  but  it  will  pass  like  our  childhood.  So  will  our 
life  —  our  sorrowful  life :  for  a  shadow  has  fallen  also 
upon  mine.  I  can  do  better  than  return  your  love, 


THE    FOKEST.  309 

since  I  can  sympathize  in  the  grief  of  its  disappoint 
ment.  For  why,  dear  Jane,  should  I  draw  a  veil 
between  our  hearts  by  affecting  to  be  ignorant  of  your 
secret  ?  How  should  I  be  unacquainted  with  it  ?  We 
loved  mutually  once,  when  we  were  both  children,  and 
it  is  only  that  I  have  been  inconstant,  while  you  feel 
injured  and  deserted." 

"  No,  no,  Alban.  It  is  pure  weakness  on  my  part 
—  principle  on  yours  —  that  has  made  the  difference. 
How  you  must  despise  me !  And  you  have  your  vir 
tuous  Mary  to  compare  me  with ! " 

She  sprang  up  and  would  have  fled  to  her  room ; 
but  he  caught  her  dress  and  detained  her. 

"Let  go,"  she  cried,  passionately.  "I  have  some 
pride  left,  Alban — some  virtue  —  though  I  know  you 
doubt  it." 

"  Hear  me  say  a  few  words  —  do  not  let  us  separate 
under  a  mistake ! "  he  answered,  with  persuasive  calm 
ness. 

She  yielded  to  a  mixture  of  hope  and  curiosity, 
and  suffered  herself  to  be  drawn  down  again  to  her 
seat,  and  he  placed  himself  now  beside  her. 

"As  in  the  old  times!  See,  in  this  fair  door-way 
there  is  room  for  Mary  too,  were  she  here.  We  will 
fancy  that  she  is.  And  after  all,  brother  and  sister 
need  not  be  so  very  distant." 


310  THE    FOREST. 

"  I  was  trying  to  turn  my  affections  into  a  sisterly 
channel,  and  it  hurt  me  that  you  seemed  to  put  another 
construction  upon  it." 

"It  was  myself,  not  you,  whom  I  was  guarding 
against  the  dangers" — he  smiled  tenderly  —  "of  too 
great  proximity.  I  never  thought  of  your  taking  it 
to  yourself. " 

"I  am  very  jealous  and  irritable,  I  know." 

"  St.  Aloysius  of  Gonzaga,  it  is  recorded,  was  of  a 
purity  so  angelical  that  he  would  not  look  at  the  face 
of  his  own  mother,"  pursued  Alban,  smiling  again. 
"No  doubt  he  was  inspired  to  impose  upon  himself 
such  a  rule,  in  order  that  youth  might  learn,  by  the 
example  of  so  great  a  saint,  to  distrust  its  own  weak 
ness,  and  be  on  its  guard  against  the  most  captivating 
appearances  of  safety,  in  a  region  full  of  pitfalls  con 
cealed  under  flowers.  What  think  you,  Jane  ?  " 

"  His  conduct  strikes  me  as  extravagant,  but  you 
assign  a  beautiful  reason  for  it." 

"  A  white  robe  shows  every  spot.  All  that  I  aspire 
to  is  ordinary  virtue ;  but  to  secure  that,  it  is  necessary 
to  go  a  little  beyond,  and  practise  the  mortification  of 
self  in  innocent  things." 

"You  have  said  enough  to  soothe  me." 

"  I  too,"  added  he,  gravely,  "  have  a  passion  to 
overcome,  and  am  exposed  to  feel  a  craving  for  un- 


THE    FOEEST.  311 

healthy  sympathy.  Do  you  know,  dear  Jane,  that  I 
am  far  from  sure  of  my  espoused  ever  becoming  my 
bride  ?  I  cannot  explain  to  you  why.  Perhaps  it  is 
she  who  hears  a  higher  call  than  that  of  earthly  love, 
—  perhaps  it  is  myself." 

"It  seems  to  me,"  said  Jane,  "that  you  will  both 
be  inexcusable  if  you  throw  away  your  own  happi 
ness  in  that  manner." 

"  You  do  not  know  the  force  of  that  deep  attraction 
from  worlds  unseen  which  enables  us  thus  to  stem  the 
current  of  our  passions." 

"  It  must  be  great  indeed." 

"Eternity  and  the  Infinite  God. —  these  are  strong 
ideas,  Jane.  Why,  what  is  this  mysterious  malady, 
from  which  we  both  are  suffering,  and  which  we  both, 
perhaps,  shall  be  obliged  to  cure  as  best  we  may  ?  " 

Jane  thought  she  knew  very  well  what  it  was, 
but  she  was  always  willing  to  listen  to  Alban,  and 
perhaps  most  willing  on  such  a  theme. 

"I  call  it  a  malady,  because  it  is  no  sin,  and  yet 
it  is  not  in  the  order  of  reason ;  for  we  blush  to  be 
suspected  of  it.  This  is  that  which  causes  what  is 
else  so  beautiful  —  the  timid  advances  of  the  youth  — 
the  bashful  flight  of  the  maiden.  Love  is  not  in  the 
order  of  reason,  and  if  so,  then  it  is  no  irreparable 
misfortune  to  be  obliged  to  overcome  it." 


312  THE    FOREST. 

"  Ah. !  "  said  Jane,  smiling  involuntarily,  "  it  is  easy 
to  talk  in  that  way,  but  will  such  reasoning  cure  any 
body  who  is  really  in  love  ?  " 

"No;  but  it  may  decide  us  to  attempt  that  cure 
by  other  and  more  appropriate  means." 

"  And  what  are  they  ?  "  asked  Jane  with  a  sigh. 

"  To  take  away  the  fuel  that  this  fire  in  the  bosom 
feeds  upon,  and  to  occupy  the  soul  with  other  thoughts. 
What  excites  and  nourishes  love  are  the  society  of 
the  beloved  object,  looks,  caresses,  reveries  in  absence 
—  a  million  things  that  lovers  know  and  love  delights 
in.  Other  thoughts,  fit  to  displace  these  dangerous 
employments,  are  those  of  Heaven  and  Hell,  of  the 
passion  of  Christ,  the  sufferings  of  the  Saints,  the  use 
of  tribulation  and  the  shortness  of  life.  A  very  good 
antidote  is  to  imagine  how  the  form  we  prize  so  inor 
dinately  will  appear  in  the  grave,  and  to  reflect  that 
it  is  certain  to  become  there  an  object  of  disgust. 
Another  is  to  ponder  how  glorious  a  thing  in  the 
sight  of  God  is  holy  celibacy  —  the  life  of  angels ; 
and  to  remember  how  our  Lord  honoured  virginity 
by  His  own  example  and  that  of  His  Blessed  Mother. 
It  will  be  hard,  my  sister,  if  with  all  these  consider 
ations  we  cannot  rise  above  our  infirmity,  and  learn 
at  least  to  tread  with  patience  and  serenity  the  painful 
way  that  lies  before  us." 


THE    FOREST.  813 

"It  would  certainly  be  better  to  do  as  you  say — • 
it  does  appear  that  it  would  help  us  a  great  deal." 

"There  is  no  more  certain  medicine  in  the  world, 
than  this,  for  a  heart  diseased.  Let  us  fasten  our  eyes 
on  that  unchanging  state  which  awaits  us  from  the 
moment  that  we  put  off  the  body,  and  we  shall  soon 
see  through  the  illusion  that  would  still  conjure  up  a 
Paradise  here,  where  Paradise  is  long  since  forfeit. 
It  will  all  be  as  clear  to  us  as  noon-day.  Little  shall 
we  care  to  pluck  the  flowers  that  fade  in  our  hands. 
How  soon  will  beauty  fade  ?  The  maiden  who  is  now 
adored,  in  how  short  a  time  will  her  form  be  loveless, 
and  her  now  rich  locks,  become  gray,  shade  a  counte 
nance  without  bloom,  or  the  winning  softness  that  now 
inspires  delight  ?  Such  is  your  fate,  Jane,  and  Mary's, 
and  that  of  every  lovely  one.  Contend  not,  then,  for 
a  sceptre  so  soon  to  be  broken,  but  lift  your  heart  to 
that  country  where  the  beauty  of  the  soul  shall  shine 
undimmed  for  ever." 

"Fain  would  I  do  so,  Alban." 

"  I  use,  you  see,  a  brother's  right,  to  advise  you, 
perhaps  a  trifle  too  sternly  —  that  is  a  part  of  my 
own  self-denial." 

"I  do  not  mind  the  sternness,"  said  Jane,  weeping. 

"  Shall  I  now  show  you  the  other  side  of  the  pic 
ture,"  he  exclaimed,  warmly.  "  Shall  I  talk  to  you  as 

14 


314  THE    FOKEST. 

a  gentleman?  —  Then,  Jane!  my  sister  and  my  beau 
tiful  friend!  how  deeply  do  I  feel  your  noble  con 
stancy,  which  honours  you,  and  of  which  I  am 
unworthy !  How  proud  I  am  to  have  been  the  object 
of  that  pure  affection  !  " 

"No,  no,  no!" 

"  Yes,  yes !  a  thousand  times  yes !  "  he  exclaimed, 
suddenly  bending  towards  her,  and  kissing  her  fore 
head.  "  It  raises  me  in  my  own  estimation  more  than 
I  can  express.  So  it  does  in  Mary's.  Lift  up  your 
head,  dear  Jane,  and  see  yourself  in  that  position  of 
dignity  which  belongs  to  every  woman  who  is  true 
to  herself.  Why  should  you  blush  for  your  own  truth 
—  your  own  fidelity  !  We  honour  you  for  it.  We 
love  you  for  it.  It  was  not  a  mere  hallucination  either. 
There  was  something  real  in  it  —  a  tie  of  blood,  an 
early,  beautiful  affection,  a  Providence  leading  us 
together  in  the  present  time  for  good.  We  are  not 
going  to  part  asunder  in  this  world,  my  sister,  but 
when  one  obstacle  has  been  removed,  (as  it  soon  will 
be,)  to  be  more  closely  united  than  ever  —  by  the 
most  sacred  ties." 

"  You  make  me  happy  now.  Oh,  that  is  all  I  want, 
not  to  be  left  in  such  cruel  isolation  !  "  cried  Jane. 

"And  you  forgive  my  impertinent  (but  salutary) 
advice  of  j  ust  now  ?  " 


THE    FOREST.  315 

"I  would  rather  you  should  strike  me  than  let  me 
alone,"  she  replied  with  a  smile.  "  The  advice  was 
good." 

"Consider  that  I  soliloquized,  and  that  what  I 
recommended  to  you  was  merely  the  needful  remedy 
for  myself. " 

"  Oh,  I  need  it  too." 

"If  you  knew  just  my  history  and  real  character, 
it  would  dispense  you  from  the  use  of  other  remedies 
against  any  shade  of  partiality  for  your  cousin  that 
exceeds  a  sister's  fond  regard." 
She  smiled  incredulously. 

"I  need  not  recall  our   childhood  again  at  Aunt 
Fanny's.      But  at  college   for   three   years,    amid   my 
books  and  student  ambition,  I  lived  in  a  self-flattering 
way  —  on  your  image,  Jane." 
"You  should  not  tell  me  so." 
"I  read  hard,  as  they  say  in  England,"  pursued 
he,  "chiefly  Greek.     Pride,  self-conceit,  and  overween 
ing  ambition,  prompted   my  studies.      First,  I  seized 
upon  the  Poets,  and  I  thought  only  of  being  another 
Homer,    Sophocles,   and   Pindar,    all   in   one;    then   I 
got  hold  of  Demosthenes,   and   the   glory   of  a  great 
orator  inflamed  me  altogether;    and,    last   of  all,   the 
Philosophers    came    up,    and    nothing   would   content 
me  but   to   emulate   Plato.     In  the  midst  of  this" 


316  THE    FOKEST. 

with  a  slightly  mocking  tone  —  "I  was  only  a  shy  col 
legian,  who  at  any  time  would  have  crossed  a  street 
or  turned  a  corner,  to  avoid  meeting  a  face  that  looked 
out  from  under  a  bonnet.  But  just  at  that  crisis,  I 
saw  Mary  De  Groot  at  a  fair,  and  I  am  sorry  to  say, 
dear  Jane,  that  all  my  long  constancy  to  you,  which 
had  kept  me  at  least  more  pure  in  conduct  than  most 
of  my  companions,  took  flight  before  her  dark  eyes 
and  girlish  fascination,  although  at  the  time  I  deemed 
that  I  only  admired  her  as  a  beautiful  child.  I  flirted, 
from  levity  or  vanity,  with  others,  till  Mary  herself 
cared  me  by  a  well-timed  exposure  of  such  ridiculous 
behaviour ;  then  I  had  a  grand  passion ;  —  for  a  noble 
girl,  it  is  true,  and  it  had  like  to  have  been  serious, 
from  my  mixture  of  audacity  and  simplicity,  and  a 
high  sense  of  honour  (which  I  really  had)  joined  to 
the  most  absurd  ignorance  of  the  world;  and  here 
my  over-vaulting  ambition  took  an  Oriental  and  mili 
tary  turn ;  —  I  cannot  explain  to  you  all,  but  it  was 
infinitely  absurd;  and  yet,  at  the  same  time  that  my 
imagination  was  exalted  in  this  extravagant  style,  I 
felt  —  to  my  deep  humiliation,  then  and  ever  since  — 
the  meanest  of  all  attractions  —  no  matter  for  that. 
But  see,  Jane,  what  a  compound  of  weaknesses  you 
have  so  faithfully  loved !  " 

"We  have  all  our  weaknesses,  if  the  truth  were 


THE    FOREST.  317 

known,"  said  Jane,  whose  blush  during  this  recital 
the  pale  moonlight  had  happily  concealed.  "  But  it 
is  not  every  one,"  she  added,  "that  overcomes  them 
so  bravely,  and  so  nobly  confesses  them." 

"  Ah !  I  have  had  them  up  to  this  time,  and  of 
those  which  are  more  recent  I  have  not  courage  to 
accuse  myself,  even  to  so  indulgent  a  confessor  as 
you."  —  And  Alban  was  soon  lost  in  thought.  Jane 
had  vanished,  too  evidently,  as  he  busied  his  mind, 
involuntarily,  with  the  recent  passages  of  his  life. 

Jane  sighed  as  she  marked  his  abstraction,  but, 
after  all,  there  is  no  comfort  like  truth,  and  it  is 
certain  that  her  eyes  had  an  expression  of  consolation 
to  which  they  had  long  been  strangers,  as  she  raised 
them  to  meet  her  cousin's  still  absent  glance,  be. 
neath  the  autumn  moon.  She  was  nothing  to  him 
but  a  sister,  she  saw  full  well,  but  a  sister  tenderly 
loved.  The  sweet,  yet  painful,  conviction  sank  deep 
into  her  heart.  When  he  presently  addressed  to  her 
some  slight  remark,  as  if  he  had  forgotten  what  had 
just  passed,  she  answered  in  a  cheerful  voice,  which 
seemed  to  regain  at  once  its  native  sweetness. 

"It  is  indeed  a  beautiful  night." 

"I  wonder  if  the  pilgrims  have  reached  their 
journey's  end,"  said  he,  rising.  "But  here  comes 
Father  — Smith." 


318  THE    FOREST. 

The  missionary  approached  from  the  chapel,  through 
the  moon-lit  garden,  with  a  slow  step ;  the  beretta  on 
his  head,  and  his  arms  folded  over  his  long  robe.  His 
eyes  were  bent  on  the  ground. 

"And  there,"  said  Jane,  looking  in  the  opposite 
direction,  — "  there  comes  old  Yincent,  dear  Alban. 
He  is  coming  to  see  how  his  patient  is  to-night." 

Atherton  stood  tranquilly  expecting  them.  The 
thought  of  Mary,  and  of  the  hardships,  if  not  dangers, 
to  which  she  was  exposed,  was  never  really  absent 
from  his  mind;  but  it  was  a  part  of  his  character 
(as  we  have  long  ago  seen)  to  meet  the  present  duty 
with  the  same  calmness  as  if  he  had  been  free  from 
every  painful  pre-occupation.  It  was  a  trait  that 
often  did  injustice  to  the  strength  and  ardour  of  his 
feelings,  till  you  were  pressed  near  enough  to  his 
heart  to  fed  its  impassioned,  manly  stroke. 


THE    FOEEST.  319 


CHAPTEE    XX. 

There  is  something  in  this  more  than  natural,  if  philosophy  could  find 
it  out. 

Hamlet. 

THERE  was  a  lively  expectation  in  the  village,  from 
the  moment  when  it  might  be  supposed  the  pilgrims 
had  reached  the  grave  of  the  saint  of  their  tribe,  that 
Mr.  De  Groot  would  show  signs  of  amendment.  More 
over,  seven  days  of  the  novena  had  been  fulfilled. 
When  old  Vincent  came  hobbling  out  of  the  mission 
on  the  evening  we  have  begun  to  describe,  he  was 
surrounded  by  a  crowd  anxious  to  hear  that  the  patient 
was  better.  It  caused  at  first  a  perceptible  disappoint 
ment,  especially  among  the  squaws,  when  the  immovea- 
ble  silence  of  the  old  man  intimated  that  no  favourable 
change  had  yet  occurred.  No  one,  however,  asked  a 
question.  Madeleine,  supporting  her  grandfather's 
steps  with  her  sinewy  arm,  bore  herself  with  a 
haughtier  carriage  than  usual.  She  did  not  believe 
that  the  martyr's  intercessions  would  be  vouchsafed  in 


820  THE    FOREST. 

this  instance,  although  the  white  chief's  daughter  was 
performing  the  pilgrimage  with  all  its  penitential 
severities  in  the  strictest  manner. 

Alban  and  the  priest  came  out  of  the  sick  room 
together.  They  no  longer  cared  to  remain  there  so 
strictly,  as  Mr.  De  Groot  for  two  days  had  ceased  to 
notice  who  it  was  that  waited  on  him.  The  moon 
attracted  them  again  into  the  garden.  Jane  rose 
from  her  seat  on  the  door-sill  to  let  them  pass,  and 
then  resumed  it,  as  if  bent  on  enjoying  like  them  the 
beauty  of  the  night. 

"  He  fails  from  day  to  day,"  said  Alban,  "  not 
rapidly,  but  surely." 

"His  daughter  should  have  reached  the  grave  of 
the  blessed  Catherine  before  sunset  to-night,  and  must 
by  this  time  have  consummated  the  usual  penance," 
replied  the  Jesuit  thoughtfully.  "  Performed  in  faith 
and  humility  by  almost  spotless  innocence,  it  ought  to 
merit  an  answer  from  the  Kingdom  of  the  Saints." 

"  What  is  the  nature  of  the  penance  performed  on 
this  occasion  ?  "  inquired  Alban. 

"  Miss  De  Groot,  I  suppose,  did  not  specify  it,  and 
I  may  as  well  not,"  replied  the  Jesuit,  with  a  look  of 
caution.  "  Let  it  rather  prevail  with  Heaven  than  win 
praise  from  men.  Do  you  know  that  that  fellow 
Duncan  is  here  again  ?  " 


THE    FOREST.  321 

"Is  he  so?  Pierre  must  watch  the  chapel  to 
night." 

"He  pretends  to  have  returned  for  his  wife,  and 
affects  to  be  much  disappointed  that  she  is  not  here. 
He  talks  of  going  after  her." 

"  Does  he  ?  "  said  Alban,  quickly.  "  I  shall  send 
Pierre  and  Courtney  on  his  trail." 

"  That  was  one  of  my  objections  to  Miss  De  Groot's 
expedition  —  although  not  the  chief  objection,"  re 
turned  the  Jesuit.  "If  there  were  only  Indians  in 
these  woods,  women  would  be  safe  as  in  a  sanctuary ; 
but  there  is  always  in  these  border  forests  a  class  of 
miserable  white  men— half  squatters,  half  trappers,  and 
whole  scoundrels.  — They  defraud,  corrupt,  and  some 
times  murder  the  Indians,  and  will  insult  a  squaw  if 
they  have  the  opportunity.  As  Duncan  has  a  wife, 
one  hopes  that  he  would  know  how  to  treat  women 
with  propriety.  His  reputation,  however,  is  not  good 
in  any  respect." 

"  Mrs.  Duncan  seems  a  good  sort  of  woman,"  ob 
served  Alban. 

"She  is  lamentably  ignorant  by  Miss  De  Groot's 
account,  but  an  angel  compared  to  her  husband,  if 
such  he  be." 

"  If  such  he  be  !  "  repeated  Alban. 

"These    connections    on   our  wild    frontier    often 
14* 


322  THE    FOREST. 

lack  the  sanction  of  either  civil  or  religious  ceremony. 
That  does  not  necessarily  render  them  invalid,  if  the 
parties  act  in  good  faith ;  but  the  good  faith  of  such 
a  fellow  as  Duncan  may  weU  be  suspected.  Miss 
De  Groot  was  much  disturbed  to  find  that  Mrs. 
Duncan,  as  she  expressed  it,  had  never  been  married. 
I  quieted  her  on  that  head  by  what  I  deemed  a  just 
representation.  Mrs.  Duncan,  after  all,  is  an  unbap- 
tized  heathen.  She  could  not  participate  in  the  holy 
sacrament  of  marriage,  and  as  for  the  civil  contract, 
it  depends  on  the  custom  of  countries.  She  considers 
herself  a  wife,  beyond  a  doubt." 

"He  is  a  rascal — that  fellow." 

"  She  is  under  instruction,"  pursued  the  mission 
ary,  "  which  she  receives,  Miss  De  Groot  says,  with 
the  docility  of  a  child.  She  does  not  know  enough  to 
dispute  any  thing  that  is  told  her  by  a  person  so 
superior.  One  doctrine  of  our  holy  religion  is  as 
easy  for  her  to  believe  as  another,  as  it  is  with  our 
Indians.  Happy  simplicity !  mother  of  faith !  Ex 
ore  infantium  et  lactentium  perfecisti  laudem." 

"What  does  that  mean?"  asked  Jane. 

"  Out  of  the  mouth  of  infants  and  sucklings  thou 
hast  perfected  praise/'  replied  Alban,  to  whom  the 
question  was  addressed. 

"  Oh,  a  verse  in  the  Bible  1 "  said  Jane. 


THE    FOEEST.  323 

"Very  different  is  the  case  of  our  poor  patient 
there  within,"  continued  Father  Smith,  with  a  sigh. 
"He  is  one  of  the  wise  and  prudent  of  this  world  — • 
too  wise  to  believe  what  his  reason  cannot  comprehend. 
I  have  known  him  long,  and  he  has  always  been  the 
same  as  now,  prolific  of  ideas,  profoundly  penetrating 
as  to  the  grand  secular  bearings  of  Christianity,  but 
insensible  to  faith.  To  hear  him  descant  on  some 
misunderstood  period  of  European  history,  and  vin 
dicate  the  grandeur  and  utility  of  the  action  of  the 
Church,  you  would  suppose  you  were  listening  to  a 
fervent  believer,  when  you  would  learn,  to  your  sur 
prise,  that  he  regarded  it  only  as  a  masterpiece  of 
human  wisdom." 

"  A  glorious  Sadducee  !  "  observed  Alban. 

"Alas!  yes!" 

"  If  he  dies  so,  he  cannot  be  saved  ?  " 

"  Qui  non  credit,  condemndbitur :  —  of  course  not." 

"He  is  our  friend,  and  Mary's  father  —  and  yet 
he  must  perish  for  ever  1  " 

"  If  our  poor  prayers  and  penances  can  avail  any 
thing  with  the  Supreme,  he  may  yet  be  converted." 

"  Ah  !  "  exclaimed  Alban,  "  what  sacrifice  would  I 
not  make,  to  obtain  so  great  a  boon ! " 

At  this  moment  a  shriek  was  heard  in  the  house, 
and  Margaret  came  flying  to  the  door  in  terror. 


324:  THE    FOREST. 

"  Father  !  Mr.  Atherton  !  my  master  is  getting  up." 

Jane  turned  and  also  shrieked,  covering  her  face. 

Mr.  De  Groot  was  corning  out  of  his  room.  Alban 
rushed  past  Jane,  and  the  missionary  also  went  in, 
when  he  had  prevailed  upon  her  to  rise,  for  she  was 
spell-bound  by  fright  and  startled  modesty. 

"  Where  is  rny  daughter,  Atherton  ?  "  said  Mr.  De 
Groot. 

With  difficulty  they  persuaded  him  to  return  to 
bed,  although  he  could  not  stand  without  support  for 
more  than  a  minute. 

"  De  Mornay !  " 

"I  am  here,"  said  the  missionary,  advancing. 

"  Where  is  my  daughter  ?  " 

"  Mary  has  gone  away  on  an  errand  connected  with 
your  health,  sir,"  said  Alban,  soothingly.  "  She  will 
return  to-morrow." 

"  She  was  here  not  a  minute  ago,"  said  Mr.  De 
Groot,  whose  eyes  constantly  sought  a  particular  spot 
on  the  floor. 

"  Margaret  was  here,  sir,  or  perhaps  you  saw  my 
cousin  Jane  sitting  in  the  door-way." 

"  I  saw  Margaret.  She  ran  away  screaming  like 
a  fool.  I  saw  a  young  lady  in  the  door-way  too. 
That  was  not  my  daughter.  Has  any  thing  happened 
to  Mary?" 


THE    FOKEST.  325 

"  She  is  absent,  sir,  on  a  short  journey,  as  I  men 
tioned  just  now.  She  has  been  gone  a  couple  of  days, 
and  we  expect  her  back  to-morrow." 

"She  is  dead,"  said  Mr.  De  Groot.  "You  will 
never  see  her  again.  She  has  been  murdered  in  the 
forest." 

"  What  said  your  master  when  he  first  attempted 
to  rise  ?  "  demanded  the  priest  of  Margaret. 

"  Why,  sir,  of  a  sudden  he  sat  up,  without  saying 
any  thing,  and  looked  as  if  he  saw  somewhat  on  the 
floor.  Then  at  onst  he  jumped  up,  and  give  me  a 
push  because  I  tried  to  stop  him,  and  made  as  if  he 
would  have  picked  something  up.  Then  I  scramed 
and  run  to  call  Mr.  Atherton  and  you." 

"  I  saw  Mary,"  said  Mr.  De  Groot,  quietly.  "  I 
thought  at  first  she  lay  on  the  floor ;  but  when  I  got 
up  I  perceived  a  river-bank  and  trees.  Try  my  pulse, 
de  Mornay." 

"  How  did  your  daughter  appear  to  you  ? "  in 
quired  the  missionary,  feeling  Mr.  De  Groot's  pulse. 

"  Half-stripped  and  covered  with  blood." 

He  raised  himself  again  on  the  elbow,  and  bent  his 
gaze  earnestly  upon  the  floor. 

"  You  see  nothing  at  present  ?  " 

"  Nothing." 

"It  was  a  hallucination." 


326  THE    FOKEST. 

"  I  wish  it  would  return,"  said  Mr.  De  Groot,  "  for 
my  satisfaction." 

Alban  regarded  alternately  the  Jesuit  and  the 
father  of  Mary,  the  former  not  without  an  air  of  re 
proach  mingled  with  resignation.  The  latter  suddenly 
altered  to  a  death-like  whiteness,  and  fell  back  in  a 
swoon.  At  first  they  thought  he  was  dead.  Margaret, 
whom  these  circumstances  converted  into  a  sort  of 
animal,  uttered  a  howl.  Alban  ran  out  and  got  some 
hartshorn  from  Jane,  who  he  knew  had  some.  Mr. 
De  Groot  revived.  They  gave  him  a  little  brandy, 
and  when  old  Vincent  came  in,  after  examining  the 
pulse  and  tongue,  he  ordered  some  nourishment  to 
be  given  him.  Let  us  leave  him  to  their  care,  and 
direct  our  attention  to  a  different  scene. 


THE    FOREST.  327 


CHAPTEE    XXI. 

O'er  fear,  o'er  thousand  forms  of  pain, 

Victorious  she  stood ! 
And  won  the  everlasting  heights 

In  streams  of  her  own  blood. 

Breviwy  Hymn. 

IT  was  towards  the  decline  of  the  second  day  that  the 
pilgrims  approached  the  shrine  buried  in  the  forest. 

They  rested  on  the  edge  of  a  small  circular  clearing 
surrounded  by  a  sweep  of  gigantic  pines  and  cypress 
and  mighty  oaks.  On  the  left  hand,  above  the  highest 
tops,  rose  a  wall  of  rocks,  precipitous  and  beetling ;  at 
an  equal  distance  on  the  right,  between  the  boles  of 
the  forest,  a  mountain  torrent  roared  and  flashed  over 
a  shelving  bed.  Eight  in  the  centre  of  the  clearing 
was  an  enormous  boulder  or  isolated  rock.  Girt  by 
the  wide-sweeping  circle  of  ancient  trees,  it  resembled 
a  Druid  altar  surrounded  by  giant  sacrifices.  And 
truly  in  the  old  Indian  times  it  had  been  often  stained 
with  the  blood  of  human  victims.  Here  a  Jesuit 


328  THE    FOREST. 

missionary,  more  than  two  hundred  years  before,  Lad 
been  tortured  and  mutilated,  and  two  of  his  neophytes 
murdered,  after  he  had  baptized  them  at  the  stake,  with 
a  few  drops  of  water  adhering  to  a  leaf  of  maize.  Here 
Catherine,  the  saint  of  the  Iroquois,  a  hundred  and 
forty  years  before  the  period  of  our  story,  having  been 
gashed  with  knives  in  every  part  of  her  virgin  body, 
and  burned  with  red-hot  gun-barrels  and  live  brands, 
was  scalped  alive,  her  bleeding  head  covered  with  hot 
embers,  then  compelled  to  fly,  and  pursued  with  blows 
and  missiles  till  she  was  finally  despatched  by  the  blow 
of  a  hatchet,  not  meant  in  mercy,  but  prompted  by 
rage  at  her  fortitude.  Her  crime  was  twofold  in  the 
eyes  of  the  savage  persecutors ;  refusing  to  become  the 
wife  of  a  pagan  Indian,  and  persisting  in  athe  prayer." 
She  died  praying  for  her  murderers,  the  purest  inno 
cence  of  life,  joined  to  the  severe  penances  then  com 
mon  among  the  Indian  converts,  having  prepared  her 
to  exhibit  that  patience  under  tortures,  by  which  she 
glorified  the  King  of  Martyrs  and  won  a  throne  of 
power  beneath  His  feet. 

Such  was  the  tale  which  Catherine,  the  young 
Indian  girl,  sister  of  the  proud  Madeleine,  and  com 
panion  of  Mary  De  Groot,  now  again  related  in  point 
ing  out  the  very  localities.  Mrs.  Duncan  listened  with 
tears,  and  bestowing  on  Miss  De  Groot  a  glance  of 


THE    FOREST.  329 

humble  veneration,  seemed  to  intimate  that  her  young 
instructress  possessed  the  spirit  of  the  saint. 

Mary  was  attired  in  the  humblest  garb  of  the 
squaws.  A  tunic  of  red  cotton,  with  short  sleeves, 
and  secured  round  the  waist  by  a  belt  of  undressed 
skin,  reached  midway  below  her  knee.  Her  feet  and 
ankles,  bare,  had  exchanged  their  natural  rosy  white 
for  a  dark  fleshy  red,  and  were  soiled  also  by  the 
decaying  or  miry  floor  of  the  forest,  as  well  as  stained 
by  streaks  of  blood  and  red  scratches.  Her  dark  hair 
flowed  dishevelled  on  her  shoulders  and  bosom.  Over 
her  head  she  had  thrown  a  blanket  of  the  usual  blue 
cloth,  but  coarse  in  texture,  which  hung  down  nearly 
to  her  feet,  and  as  she  leaned  against  a  fallen  pine, 
she  held  it  confined  in  front  with  one  hand.  It  is 
the  same  garment,  ever  modest,  the  most  ancient  outer 
vestment  of  her  sex,  which  we  see  in  the  Greek  statues 
of  women,  and  in  the  pictures  of  the  Blessed  Virgin, 
and  which  is  still  worn  in  the  antique  manner  by  the 
Indian  females. 

Miss  De  Groot's  rosary  was  stuck  in  her  rough 
belt.  She  carried  no  other  burden,  but  both  Mrs. 
Duncan  and  the  young  Indian  had  a  bundle  of  mod 
erate  size,  involved  in  bark,  and  strapped  on  their 
shoulders  by  thongs  of  the  same.  Mary's  face  was 
flushed  and  warm,  though  she  looked  much  fatigued, 


330  THE    FOREST. 

and  her  limbs  trembled  as  she  placed  one  travel- 
stained  foot  across  the  other  in  her  attitude  of  repose. 
In  her  eye  might  be  observed  an  eager  expectation 
mixed  with  fear.  Finally,  she  put  a  question  to  her 
companions,  to  which  they  assented,  and  all  moved 
forward  to  the  boulder,  on  which  a  cross  had  been 
planted.  Arrived  before  it,  all  knelt ;  Mary  took  a 
small  book  from  her  bosom,  and  read  some  prayers. 
It  was  the  Way  of  the  Cross,  and  this  was  the  thir 
teenth  station,  for  as  they  rose,  Mary  said,  with  a 
deep  sigh, 

"  There  remains  one  more,  Catherine." 
"  Half   a    mile    further    on,"    replied    the    young 
Indian,    taking    Mary's    mantle   from   her.      "  So   far 
blessed   Catherine   ran  from   her  enemies.     It  is   the 
custom  to  perform  this  part  on  our  knees." 

Mary  threw  herself  again  on  her  knees  and  kissed 
the  ground.  All  did  the  same.  The  young  squaw 
led  the  way.  At  first,  the  course  was  little  difficult, 
for  it  lay  over  the  prairie ;  but  after  it  re-entered  the 
forest,  at  every  slow,  dragging  step  the  obstacles 
increased.  To  get  over  twisted  roots,  or  creep  be 
neath  fallen  trees,  was  less  afflicting  than  to  pass  the 
stony  brooklets  or  soft  marshy  places,  which  multi 
plied  as  they  drew  near  the  river.  An  active  man, 
in  his  freer  attire,  would  have  found  himself  often  at 


THE    FOREST.  331 

a  loss   in  piercing   the  miry  thicket,  with   every  re 
source  of  strong  hand   and  ready  foot.      The  young 
Indian    and    Mrs.   Duncan    held    up    their    garments 
above  the  knee,  but  Mary,  at  every  step,  was  obliged 
to  draw  her  tunic,  as  well  as  she  could,  from  under 
hers.     Not  a  word  was  said  by  either  of  her  compan 
ions  to  intimate  that  she  would  do  well  to  relinquish 
a    task    too    severe    for    her    comparatively    delicate 
frame.     In  pitying  her,   both   seemed  to  regard   her 
sufferings  as  inevitable;    as  we  read  in  Oriental  story 
of  some  cruel  custom  enforced  without  relenting  by 
the  nearest  friends  of  the  unhappy  victim.     Once  she 
sunk  upon  her  face  in  despair,  grasping  a  huge  root, 
whose  snake-like  involutions  and  knotty  bends  formed 
a  network,  between   the   interstices  of  which   a  soft, 
black,  adhesive  soil,  half  mud,  half  water,  was  alone 
sufficient  to  bar  her  progress. 

"Yet  here  holy  Catherine  passed,"  she  thought 
—  withdrawing  one  arm,  covered  with  mire  to  the 
elbow,  from  a  deep  hole  into  which  it  had  incautiously 
sunk — "here  she  passed,  her  head  a  mass  of  gore 
and  ashes,  her  limbs  gashed  and  bleeding,  her  body 
burned  all  over  with  red-hot  irons,  while  fiends  in 
human  shape,  her  nearest  kindred,  pursued  her  with 
rods,  shot  at  her  with  arrows,  and  struck  her  down 
with  stones  and  tomahawks.  0  glorious  martyr! 


332  THE    FOREST. 

help  me  to  bear  my  light  sufferings  in  imitation  of 
thee  and  our  common  Lord ! " 

Fortified  by  these  thoughts  and  by  her  prayer,  the 
fainting  girl  renewed  her  efforts.  She  came  to  the 
brink  of  the  stream.  Holy  Catherine  had  passed  it 
before  she  fell.  The  water  was  not  deep  in  appearance, 
but  rushing  and  arrowy.  A  hundred  yards  or  more 
below,  the  spray  of  a  considerable  fall  rose  in  a  whitish 
column.  The  Indian  girl  and  the  trapper's  wife  still 
led  the  way.  The  former  soon  scrambled  to  the 
opposite  bank.  The  latter,  equally  agile  and  more 
muscular,  moved  more  slowly,  fearing  that  the  force 
of  the  current  might  prove  too  great  for  Miss  De 
Groot.  And  still  the  latter  encountered  an  impedi 
ment  from  which  the  others  were  comparatively  free. 
The  water  took  her  tunic  as  the  wind  takes  a  sail. 
Its  force  was  irresistible  and  she  was  carried  down. 
Mrs.  Duncan  attempted  to  catch  her,  but  herself  slipped 
from  the  rolling  of  a  stone.  Mary  was  swept  away 
and  submerged,  but  swam  energetically.  She  vainly 
caught  in  passing  at  some  willows  that  fringed  the 
bank  at  a  sudden  bend. 

"Holy  Virgin,  save  me,"  she  murmured. 

The  next  moment  she  was  stranded  on  a  shallow 
of  sand,  among  fragments  of  raft-wood  accumulated 
bv  the  current.  Between  this  and  the  shore  the  water 


THE    FOREST.  333 

r ashed  in  a  deep  channel,  swift  and  forcible,  not  fifty 
yards  above  the  fall,  and  a  tree  lay  across  at  a  dizzy 
height  —  a  slender  trunk.  Mary  climbed  up  one  of 
the  branches  to  the  trunk.  Desperation  gave  her 
strength.  The  young  Catherine  had  run  to  the  spot, 
but  now  looked  on  without  interfering.  With  a  trem 
bling  foot  the  maiden  crossed  on  the  lofty,  narrow 
bridge,  where  a  misstep  or  a  sudden  dizziness  would 
have  been  inevitable  destruction. 

Beneath  some  aged  hemlocks,  on  a  bank  kept 
green  by  a  trickling  spring,  was  a  simple  mound  with 
a  massive  stone  cross  —  the  grave  of  the  saint.  In 
serted  in  the  cross  was  the  rude  picture  of  the  last 
station  of  the  Via  Crucis  —  JESUS  laid  in  the  Holy 
Sepulchre  —  covered  with  a  glass  to  protect  it  from 
the  weather.  The  sun  was  set,  and  Mary  De  Groot, 
partly  recovered,  but  still  panting  and  sobbing  with 
her  toil  and  danger,  read  by  the  fading  twilight  the 
appropriate  prayers. 

An  hour  or  more  had  passed.  They  had  finished 
the  prayers  of  the  station,  said  the  Litany  of  the  Saints, 
with  the  beads,  to  unite  in  the  novena,  and  sung  the 
Evening  Hymn.  In  spirit  they  have  placed  themselves 
with  their  brethren  before  the  Blessed  Sacrament,  and 
implored  the  benediction  of  the  Lord.  The  moon  shone 
upon  the  wild  river-bank,  and  made  the  streaming, 


334  THE    FOREST. 

ragged  moss  —  the  hoar  hair  of  the  aged  hemlocks  — 
whiter  than  by  day.  The  hour  had  come  for  the  final 
penance,  which  Mary  alone  was  to  undergo.  With 
great  reluctance  had  Father  Smith  consented  to  her 
performing  it,  and  not  until  she  had  begged  his  per 
mission  with  tears,  that  she  might  leave  nothing 
undone  to  merit  the  protection  of  the  martyr  and  of 
the  Queen  of  Saints.  Yet  now  that  the  time  had 
arrived,  when  nothing  else  remained  to  do,  her  heart 
grew  sick,  her  womanly  soul  recoiled.  Prostrate  upon 
the  grave  of  the  Indian  saint,  she  wept  and  prayed 
for  the  true  and  worthy  spirit  of  penance. 

"  I  offer  it,"  she  cried,  "  in  memory  of  the  suffer 
ings  of  my  Lord,  and  in  union  with  His  merits,  to 
satisfy  for  my  sins,  to  conquer  the  weakness  of  my 
heart,  and  to  obtain  for  my  dear  father  the  restoration 
of  health  and  grace  of  true  conversion.  I  offer  it 
with  this  intention,  through  the  intercession  of  the 
Blessed  Mary,  Ever-virgin,  and  Catherine,  the  martyr 
of  the  Iroquois,  at  whose  tomb  it  is  performed,  through 
Christ  our  Lord." 

When  Mary  De  Groot  had  ended  this  prayer,  she 
raised  herself,  with  a  new  resolution  beaming  in  her 
haggard  face  and  trembling  form. 

"  0  my  father !  "  she  exclaimed,  with  an  enthusiasm 
that  seldom  appeared  in  her  —  "  you  have  doubted 


THE    FOKEST.  335 

my  loyalty  and  repelled  my  affection,  but  you  shall 
now  experience  in  your  last  necessity  the  power  of 
your  daughter's  love." 

Mrs.  Duncan  had  retired  to  a  distance,  but  the 
Indian  girl  remained,  and  with  a  pitiless  readiness 
extended  to  Miss  De  Groot  the  "discipline"  of  her 
sainted  namesake,  with  which  holy  Catherine  had 
been  wont,  a  century  and  a  half  before,  to  chasten 
her  body  yet  unredeemed,  mark  of  that  wondrous 
contrition  wherewith  divine  grace  had  inspired  her. 
Waving  it  slightly,  as  if  to  show  its  use,  a  sort  of 

wild  sparkle  gleamed  in   her    young  bright  eye a 

quick   pant   heaved  her   half-clad,   swarthy  breast; 

then  she  darted  away  with  the  agile  movement  of  a 
wild  cat,  and  joined  Mrs.  Duncan.  Was  the  savage 
yet  eradicated  in  this  dark-skinned  race  ? 

******  # 

An  expression  of  ineffable  tenderness  and  pity 
softened  the  dark  features  of  Catherine,  and  seemed 
to  bend  her  slender  form  upon  itself,  as  she  crouched 
by  the  wife  of  the  trapper. 

"We  go  to  her  now?"  she  whispered. 
"She  has  not  called  us." 
"Me  hear  nothing  —  nothing  more!" 
They  approached  slowly,  and  saw  what  her  father 
had  seen,  except  that  her  fair  shoulders,  though  bare 


336  THE    FOKEST. 

in  the  moonlight,  were  spotless  as  a  child's.  At  first 
they  thought  she  had  fainted,  but  her  face,  pillowed 
on  the  mound,  was  rather  flushed  than  pale ;  her  bosom 
rested  on  the  grave ;  one  white  arm,  gently  flexed, 
embraced  it,  the  hand  still  firmly  holding  the  flinty 
scourge  ;  and  her  long  black  hair  descended  like  a 
veil,  mingling  with  her  vesture,  and  sweeping  the 
surface  of  the  grassy  earth. 

So  slept  beneath  the  sky  the  exhausted  pilgrim, 
as  in  the  palace  of  her  sire,  and  the  appeased  shade 
of  her  mother  watched,  triumphant,  by  her  side. 


THE    FOKEST.  337 


CHAPTER    XXII. 

And  sternly  bade  him  other  business  plie, 
Than  hunt  the  steps  of  pure  unspotted  maid. 

Fcwrie  Qu&ne. 

IT  was  the  eve  of  All  Saints.  Many  of  the  Indians 
observed  the  fast  with  great  strictness  until  the  set 
ting  of  the  sun.  The  pilgrims  were  expected  at  an 
early  hour  on  the  morrow,  in  time  for  the  late  mass, 
when  the  novena,  the  petitions  of  winch  had  been 
already  in  part  answered,  was  to  terminate  by  a 
general  communion.  A  certain  solemn  stir  pervaded 
the  village,  and  the  missionary  was  in  the  church 
nearly  all  day  hearing  confessions.  Here  was  observed 
that  peculiarity  which  is  so  beautiful  in  the  Indian 
missions  —  the  participation  of  the  whole  population 
in  the  same  acts  of  religion,  and  with  almost  the  same 
fervour. 

Early  in   the   afternoon,  two   Indian   maidens   en 
tered  the  sanctuary  to  divest  the  altar  of  the  purple 

15 


338  THE    FOKEST. 

hangings  winch  had  been  used  in  the  morning  on 
account  of  the  vigil,  and  to  replace  them  by  the  white 
appropriate  to  the  Feast  —  one  of  the  greatest  of  the 
year,  or,  as  it  is  entitled  in  the  Eoman  ordo,  "  a 
DOUBLE  of  the  First  Class,  with  an  octave,  all  proper, 
white."  Reverently  they  bent  the  knee,  and  then 
with  a  quiet,  business-like  air,  stripped  the  altar  till 
nothing  remained  but  the  dark  cedar.  The  white 
hangings,  which  they  then  proceeded  to  attach,  had 
been  worked  by  the  indefatigable  fingers  of  the  Indian 
women,  in  gold  beads  and  silk,  and  were  really  very 
precious.  They  set  the  numberless  tapers  —  all  freshly 
placed  in  the  candlesticks  ;  they  placed  the  last  flowers 
of  the  season  —  white  and  blue  chrysanthemums.  The 
altar  linen  hung  down  still  in  its  simple  purity.  The 
cedar  shrine  of  the  God  of  Israel  rose  dark  and  high 
above  it,  surrounded  by  the  tall,  slender,  white  tapers 
which  soon  were  to  kindle  with  light  in  honour  of  its 
divine  Guest,  as  the  invisible  throne  is  girt  about 
with  the  starry-shining,  angelic  multitude.  Again  the 
maidens,  having  finished  their  task,  bent  the  knee 
and  retired.  Thus  an  order  and  beauty,  like  that  of 
Heaven,  had  established  a  visible  reign  among  this 
once  savage  race,  and  even  the  approach  of  females 
to  the  altar,  which  for  good  reasons  is  universal  in 
the  American  mission,  served  a  happy  end  in  restor- 


THE    FOREST.  339 

ing  that  spiritual  equality  of  the  sexes  which   exists 
in  Christendom  alone. 

The  trapper,  Duncan,  had  come  into  the  chapel, 
and  was  a  witness  of  the  proceedings  about  the  altar. 
But  about  this  time  Father  Smith  quitted  the  con 
fessional,  and  proceeded  through  the  sacristy  to  the 
mission,  and  the  trapper,  leaving  the  church  by  the 
principal  door,  hastily  followed  him. 

Duncan  had  prowled  about  the  village  all  day, 
and  had  soon  become  aware  that  he  was  watched. 
He  had  gone  forth  to  the  woods,  and  perceived  that 
he  was  followed.  The  sagacious  Pierre,  who  would 
have  tracked  him  with  the  accuracy  of  a  bloodhound, 
and  the  fiery  Courtney,  whose  quick  blood  and  prac 
tised  rifle  were  dangerous,  kept  him  steadily  in  view. 
His  wandering  away,  however,  was  a  feint.  It  was 
on  his  return  that  he  presented  himself,  as  now,  to 
Father  Smith  in  the  garden  of  the  mission-house, 
and  desired  once  more  to  know  how  soon  his  wife 
was  expected. 

"You  mean  to  return  with  her  to  Racket?" 

"  Certain." 

"  Immediately  ?  " 

"Right  off." 

"Do  you  know  that  she  is  a  candidate  for  bap 
tism  ?  " 


340  THE    FOREST. 

"Got  religion  here,  eh?" 
"We  hope  so." 

"  Wai,  I  haint  no  objection.  I  was  baptized  by 
a  Methodist  preacher  in  Lake  Scroon,  when  I  was 
fifteen  year  old.  Went  regularly  under  the  water, 
you  see.  You  sprinkle,  I  guess,  Mister  Smith  ?  " 
"  We  baptize,"  said  the  missionary,  warmly. 
"  Jes'  so.  I  was  dipped,  and  I  remember  hearin' 
the  parson  say,  'In  the  name,'  and  so  on,  while  I 
was  under  water.  It  was  rather  a  solemn  time.  I 
shall  never  forget  it.  He  was  a  powerful  preacher, 
and  converted  a  power  of  people  in  them  days.  A 
good  man,  I  guess  —  though  he  fell  from  grace  arter- 
wards,  and  run  away  with  a  gal  what  he  had  con 
verted  and  dipped." 

"After   your   wife   has   been   baptized,"   said   the 
missionary,   sternly,    "you   must  be    married  to    her 
according  to  the  forms  of  the  Church." 
"  Oh !  I  don'  know  about  that  are." 
"  It    must    be     so,    man  ! "     replied    the    priest, 
"  Think  of  this.     Miss  De  Groot  will  hardly  be  able 
to    reach    here    before    to-morrow    morning.     I    will 
baptize  your  wife  immediately,  and,  after  the  religious 
ceremonies    of    the    morning    are    concluded,    marry 
you.      If  you  mean  well  by  her,  as  I  hope  you  do, 
you  cannot  object." 


THE    FOREST.  341 

"No,  Mister  Smith,  you  can't  come  over  me  in 
that  way,  no  how.  I  ain't  goin'  to  be  tied  to  no 
woman  under  the  sun,  so  that  I  can't  slip  loose  if 
need  be:-* least  of  all  to  Dorothy,"  replied  the  trapper, 
with  a  grin. 

"  You  must  give  her  up,  then,"  said  the  mission 
ary,  coldly.  "She  is  with  friends  who  will  not  see 
her  unfairly  dealt  by.  She  knows  now  what  a  Chris 
tian  woman  has  a  right  to  expect,  and  she  will  never 
go  with  you  again,  unless  you  concede  it  to  her." 

"  We  shall  see  about  that,"  replied  the  squatter, 
with  an  ill-omened  redness  tinging  his  sallow  face. 

"  Have  you  lost  all  your  interest  in  religion  ? " 
inquired  Father  Smith,  willing  to  propitiate  the  man 
for  his  wife's  sake.  "  You  must  have  had  some 
when  you  were  baptized." 

"I  have  committed  the  unpardonable  sin,"  replied 
Duncan. 

"  You  cannot  possibly  know  that,"  said  the 
missionary. 

"Yes,  every  man  has  seven  calls.  If  he  rejects 
them  all,  or  falls  away  after  the  last,  it  is  all  up  with 
him.  I  have  gone  back  after  my  seventh." 

"The  conversion  of  your  wife  is  a  call  to  you," 
replied  the  priest,  in  a  softened  tone.  "  Perhaps  you 
have  counted  wrong.  It  were  an  easy  mistake. 


342  THE    FOREST. 

Try  this  once,  and  see  whether  yon  cannot,  more  truly 
than  ever  before,  reconcile  yourself  to  your  Maker." 

"  I  tell  you,  Mister  Smith,  it  is  jes'  as  impossible 
as  for  water  to  burn  in  a  lamp  like  ile."  % 

Here  Alban  came  out  of  the  mission  with  Mr.  De 
Groot's  rifle,  which  Morrell  by  his  order  had  been 
cleaning,  and  sitting  down  upon  the  door-step,  began 
to  load  with  ball.  Now  that  his  friend  was  pronounced 
out  of  danger,  he  already  began  to  think  of  improving 
the  time  by  going  out  for  deer.  The  trapper  touched 
his  gray  marten  cap  and  sauntered  off. 

In  the  village  the  women  were  talking  over  Mr. 
De  Groot's  miraculous  cure.  Duncan  joined  himself 
to  Morrell  and  Courtney,  who  were  discussing  the 
same  subject.  Morrell  thought  that  maybe  Mr.  De 
Groot  would  have  got  well  any  way.  He  did  not 
much  believe  that  the  young  lady's  going  forty  mile 
barefoot  through  the  woods  had  any  thing  to  do  with 
it.  He  did  n't  see  how  it  could.  He  had  always 
heerd  that  miracles  had  ceased,  and  this,  if  true,  would 
be  a  miracle.  It  had  happened  so.  It  was  just  like 
them  patent  medicines.  When  the  person  what  took 
one  of  'em  got  well,  the  medicine  got  the  credit,  but 
nothin'  was  said  about  them  as  took  it  and  died. 

"Jes'  so,"  said  Courtney,  who  generally  inclined 
to  the  last  opinion  uttered. 


THE    FOREST.  343 

"Now  I  think  this  was  a  ginewine  miracle,"  ob 
served  Duncan.  "  When  I  was  a  Methodist,  I  re 
member  one  of  the  elders  fell  sick  at  camp-meetin', 
and  we  prayed  for  him  in  the  prayin'  circle,  for  a 
matter  of  four  hours,  men  and  women,  boys  and  gals, 
all  in  a  heap.  There  was  one  woman  and  two  gals 
had  the  power  tremendyous.  Wai  —  we  prayed  the 
elder  out  of  bed,  and  inter  the  pulpit,  and  he  never 
had  the  least  touch  of  the  agur  arterwards.  Now  I 
reckon  that  all  these  bloody  Ingins  prayin'  for  the 
Patroon  nine  days,  and  Miss  De  Groot  goin'  so  far  to 
the  grave  of  that  are  holy  squaw,  what  they  murdered 
fur  havin'  religion  two  hundred  years  ago,  (that's 
prayin'  too,  and  mighty  hard,)  —  its  enough  to  account 
for  her  father  gettin'  well  putty  sudden." 

The  village  assembled  at  an  earlier  hour  than 
usual  for  the  evening  prayers,  inspired  by  the  zeal 
of  the  approaching  festivity,  and  by  the  universal 
enthusiasm  consequent  upon  the  cure  of  the  Patroon. 
They  came  dropping  in  long  before  the  time ;  Indians 
in  blue  tunics  and  classic  blankets;  squaws  in  dark 
leggins  and  short  blue  kirtles;  maidens  with  long 
black  hair  streaming  on  their  shoulders ;  and  children 
of  both  sexes,  with  more  or  less  scanty,  yet  decent 
clothing,  down  to  the  swaddled  papoose,  on  its  stiff 
board,  lashed  to  its  mother's  back.  It  was  curious 


344  THE    FOEEST. 

to  behold  the  possession  of  the  loftiest  ideas  of  the 
revelation  imparted  to  man  by  the  incarnate  LOGOS, 
with  which  the  highly  civilized  people  surrounding 
them,  the  invaders  and  lords  of  their  country,  were 
almost  wholly  unacquainted,  united  with  the  external 
semblance  of  a  swarthy  tribe,  but  half  emerged  from 
the  aboriginal  barbarism :  —  the  noblest  acquisitions 
of  man  in  the  supernatural  world,  mingled  with  traces 
of  the  savage  state ! 

The  three  white  hunters  came  to  the  chapel  to 
gether  in  friendly  fashion,  and  stood  near  the  door. 
After  the  Veni  Creator  had  been  sung,  the  beads  said, 
the  anthem  solemnly  chanted,  while  the  boys  prepared 
to  light  up  the  white  forest  of  candles  for  Benediction, 
Father  Smith  began  his  instructions,  which  he  delivered 
in  English  for  the  sake  of  the  guides  and  Duncan ; 
for  these  were  as  lost  sheep  in  comparison  to  the 
Indians,  and  the  missionary  deemed  that  the  oppor 
tunity  of  making  a  salutary  impression  upon  them  was 
not  to  be  thrown  away.  Courtney  became  intensely 
interested ;  Morrell  gave  a  close  attention ;  but  Pierre 
kept  one  eye  upon  Duncan,  particularly  as  the  latter, 
by  a  suspicious  movement,  managed  to  get  next  the 
door. 

All  at  once  it  occurred  to  Alban  that  it  was  too 
bad  for  poor  Margaret  Dolman  to  be  deprived  of  the 


THE    FOREST.  345 

benefit  of  hearing  this  English  instruction,  which  so 
many  who  could  well  supply  her  place  by  Mr.  De 
Groot,  were  unable  to  profit  by.  Turning  round,  he 
beckoned  Pierre  to  approach  him.  He  wished  to  send 
Madeleine  to  take  Margaret's  place,  but  judged  it 
better,  in  dealing  with  so  haughty  a  girl,  to  give  the 
order  through  her  father :  for  Atherton,  by  his  intel 
lect,  his  firm  will,  and  his  calm  manner,  had  acquired 
among  the  Indians  almost  the  authority  of  a  prince. 
Duncan  seized  the  moment  that  Pierre  bent  to  listen 
to  the  young  man,  to  escape  from  the  chapel. 

The  trapper  slipped  round  to  the  mission-garden. 
He  entered  the  house.  Margaret  was  in  her  master's 
room,  sitting  and  sewing.  Duncan  called  her  by  signs 
into  the  outer  apartment,  and  the  girl,  nothing  suspi 
cious,  came  out  to  him.  She  believed  that  he  had 
news  from  her  mistress.  The  object  of  the  trapper 
was  to  get  rid  of  the  girl  as  speedily  as  possible,  and 
he  attempted  to  kiss  her,  whereupon,  as  soon  as  she 
could  break  from  him,  to  which  he  offered  no  violent 
opposition,  she  ran  into  the  garden,  being  afraid  to 
disturb  her  master  by  making  an  outcry  in  the  house. 
He  came  to  the  door  of  the  mission-house,  and  she 
fled  to  that  of  the  sacristy.  Margaret  afterwards  said 
that  as  he  was  one  of  the  guides,  and  had  been  in 

her  master's  special  employ  previously,  the  idea  never 

15* 


346  THE    FOREST. 

entered  her  head  that  he  ought  not  to  be  left  with 
Mr.  De  Groot.  She  regarded  his  conduct,  in  her 
simple  way,  as  the  impertinence  of  a  fellow-servant, 
and  her  only  anxiety  was  to  keep  personally  out  of 
his  reach. 

The  trapper  entered  Mr.  De  Groot's  room,  treading 
softly  in  his  moccasins.  The  convalescent  slept.  His 
clothes  were  laid  in  good  order  on  a  shelf;  his  trav 
elling-bag  hung  upon  a  nail.  Duncan  cut  it  open 
forthwith  with  his  hunting-knife,  and  emptied  the 
contents  on  the  floor.  Mr.  De  Groot's  purse,  filled 
with  gold  for  this  excursion,  tumbled  out  with  the 
rest,  the  glittering  pieces  shining  through  the  silken 
meshes  which  they  distended.  The  robber  transferred 
it  to  his  own  pocket,  seized  the  watch  which  ticked 
on  the  table,  now  no  longer  occupied  by  medicinal 
draughts,  and  retired  as  stealthily  as  he  came.  One 
moment  he  gave  to  reconnoitring  at  the  small  window 
of  the  outer  room.  Pierre  and  both  the  guides  were 
just  turning  the  further  corner  of  the  chapel,  but 
with  the  air  of  men  who  knew  not  precisely  in  what 
direction  to  look ;  Margaret,  loitering  by  the  sacristy 
door,  watched  the  house ;  Morrell  made  a  step  forward 
in  that  direction  ;  Duncan  did  not  wait  to  see  him 
meet  the  girl ;  the  back  door  offered  an  egress  from 
the  mission,  unperceived  by  any  one.  He  sprang  out, 


THE    FOREST.  347 

ran  across  the  burial-ground,  in  full  sight  of  his  pur 
suers,  had  they  been  looking  in  that  direction,  plunged 
into  the  cedar  grove,  flew  to  the  river.  A  canoe  lay 
moored  by  the  bank.  He  sprang  into  it,  and  in  a 
minute  had  gained  the  opposite  side. 


348  THE    FOREST. 


CHAPTER    XXIII. 

Men  of  good  are  bold  as  sackless  ; 
Men  of  rude  are  wild  and  rackless. 

Lie  thou  still 

In  the  nook  of  the  hill, 
For  those  be  before  thee  that  wish  thee  ill. 

Monastery. 

MANY  circumstances  were  in  favour  of  the  fugitive. 
Some  time  would  necessarily  be  lost  in  ascertaining 
the  precise  direction  which  he  had  taken,  and  in  de 
ciding  upon  a  plan  for  pursuit ;  and  this  time  was 
the  twilight,  of  which  Duncan  was  able  to  take  ad 
vantage  in  crossing  the  woods.  Above  all,  he  was 
unencumbered  for  the  present,  except  by  his  plunder, 
while  his  pursuers  would  be  embarrassed  with  firearms 
and  canoes. 

After  a  course  of  about  four  hours  through  a  dense 
forest,  he  came  upon  the  borders  of  a  lake.  Close  to 
the  water's  edge  at  the  point  where  he  struck  it,  was 
a  canoe  among  the  bushes,  turned  bottom  up.  He 
quickly  reversed  it.  Beneath  were  a  rifle,  an  axe,  a 


THE    FOREST.  349 

•fishing-rod,  a  pair  of  paddles,  and  a  bundle  done  up 
in  bark.  He  launched  the  light  craft,  flung  in  the 
articles  and  pushed  off.  Straight  across  the  solitary, 
moonlit  lake  he  paddled  —  a  distance  of  some  nine 
miles  —  to  the  base  of  some  mountains  with  forests  at 
their  feet.  Here  opened,  as  he  drew  near,  an  inlet 
bordered  by  precipitous,  beetling  rocks,  and  bearing 
along  the  roar  and  gusty  breath  and  yeasty  foam  of 
a  cataract.  Approaching  as  near  to  the  rocks  as  pos 
sible,  he  disembarked  on  some  low  grounds,  shouldered 
his  canoe  and  the  luggage,  and  pushed  on.  There 
was  about  a  mile  of  rugged  portage,  doubly  difficult 
by  night,  notwithstanding  the  aid  of  the  moon.  It 
was  close  upon  midnight ;  he  had  travelled  for  six 
hours  and  a  half  without  rest,  except  the  change  from 
coursing  the  forest  to  rowing  upon  the  broad  lake ; 
but  he  had  accomplished  his  purpose.  That  stern 
satisfaction  which  men  feel  when  they  have  success 
fully  executed  a  difficult  and  daring  project,  was  his. 
On  the  bank  of  the  stream,  at  the  point  where  he 
again  reached  it,  a  fire  was  burning  under  the  trees. 
Having  relaunched  and  secured  his  canoe,  he  took  his 
rifle  and  cautiously  approached  the  bivouac  of  the 
pilgrims.  The  three  females,  sheltered  by  a  vast  heap 
of  brushwood,  reposed  in  deep  slumber,  before  the  fire, 
close  to  each  other ;  Mary  De  Groot,  enveloped  from 


350  THE    FOREST. 

head  to  foot  in  her  blue  mantle  or  Indian  blanket, 
lay  between  the  others,  having  the  dark  arm  of  the 
Indian  girl  thrown  tenderly  and  protectingly  around 
her. 

The  pilgrims  were  entirely  defenceless,  and  Duncan 
was  a  man,  desperate  from  his  recent  crime,  well-armed, 
and  possessing  the  habitual  authority  of  a  despotic 
husband  over  one  of  their  number.  The  young  Indian 
girl  no  sooner  comprehended  his  purpose  than  she 
bounded  off  like  a  fawn  into  the  forest,  and  was  out 
of  sight  in  an  instant;  but  Miss  De  Groot,  wearied 
and  stiff  with  the  terrible  fatigues  of  the  route,  was 
in  no  situation  for  either  resistance  or  flight ;  and  Mrs. 
Duncan  obeyed  his  orders  with  a  crouching  fear  that 
plainly  discovered  the  recollection  of  personal  violence. 
Whatever  plans  this  thorough-bred  villain  had  pre 
viously  formed,  the  sight  of  Miss  De  Groot,  starting 
from  sleep,  sealed  his  resolution. 

"Down  to  yon  canoe,  Dorothy  —  never  mind  the 
traps  —  and  prehaps,  miss,  you  '11  prefer  to  walk  down 
to  that  are  boat  to  havin'  me  carry  you,  seein'  I  ain't 
that  young  chap  what  carries  all  the  ladies,  I  believe, 
as  easy  and  tender  as  a  squaw  does  her  first  papoose. 
Come,  miss,  I  'm  bound  to  be  purlite  to  you,  but  I  Ve 
no  time  for  shilly-shallyin' :  —  you  must  go  yourself, 
or  I'll  make  you,  by  golly  I  will." 


THE    FOREST.  351 

With  such  words,  and  a  sufficiently  decided  show 
of  actions  to  correspond,  he  compelled  her  to  enter  the 
canoe,  and  gave  one  of  the  paddles  to  his  wife. 

"  Don't  use  it  any  more  than  you  can  help,"  whis 
pered  Mary,  who  was  in  the  stern ;  for  the  ruffian,  who 
lay  in  the  bows,  still  treated  her  with  so  much  respect 
as  to  allow  her  to  place  herself  where  she  liked. 

"He  will  kill  me,"  returned  Mrs.  Duncan,  in  the 
same  tone,  paddling  slowly  out  into  the  stream. 

"  Never  mind  death," 

"  If  I  was  only  baptized,  dear  lady,"  replied  Mrs. 
Duncan,  hesitating. 

"  Eow ! "  cried  Duncan,  giving  the  poor  creature  a 
blow  with  the  butt  of  his  rifle  that  nearly  knocked  her 
into  the  water.  "Put  your  strength  on  that  paddle, 
woman ! " 

"Your  desire  of  baptism  is  sufficient,"  whispered 
Mary :  "  don't  do  any  such  thing." 

Mrs.  Duncan  dropped  the  paddle,  and  clasped  her 
hands  piteously. 

"Kill  me,  if  you  want  to,  Iray.  I  won't  row  for 
you  agin  Miss  De  Groot's  wishes.  It  ain't  no  good  you 
mean,  to  be  takin'  her  with  us." 

Duncan  cocked  his  rifle  and  raised  it  to  a  level. 
Miss  De  Groot  threw  herself  forward  and  put  her  arms 
round  Mrs.  Duncan's  neck.  The  action  spoke,  but  she 


352  THE    FOREST. 

said  nothing.  In  fact,  she  had  not  addressed  a,  word 
to  the  robber  from  the  first. 

"  Hear  me  now,  both  of  you,"  said  Duncan,  lower 
ing  the  rifle.  "  What  I  want  is  to  get  off.  I  am  wore 
out  with  this  here  trampin'  and  rowin'  for  so  many 
hours  as  I've  come,  and  carryin'  this  darned  canoe. 
Do  you  row  for  me,  Dorothy,  as  far  as  I  want  you, 
and  you  shall  go  back  with  Miss  De  Groot,  if  you  like 
it  better  than  goin'  north  with  me.  But,  contrary  wise, 
if  you're  obstinate,  I'll  jes'  take  you  both  ashore  agin, 
and  Miss  De  Groot  shall  rue  the  day  that  ever  she 
was  born." 

Mary  glanced  at  the  rapid  and  deep  river.  In  the 
canoe,  at  least,  an  escape  was  always  ready.  She  bade 
Mrs.  Duncan  proceed.  The  latter  was  fresh,  having 
slept  for  several  hours  previous  to  their  surprise.  She 
pulled  steadily  and  vigorously  against  the  powerful 
stream.  Meanwhile,  the  noble-hearted  daughter,  fold 
ing  her  mantle  closely  round  her,  and  drawing  it 
over  her  face,  committed  herself  to  the  protection  of 
Heaven. 

His  long  tramp,  the  excitement  of  a  day  during 
which  he  had  revolved  his  crime,  and  the  excitement 
of  its  commission,  joined  to  a  fast  of  nearly  twelve 
hours,  and  the  draughts  of  brandy  from  a  pocket  flask, 
with  which  from  time  to  time  he  had  recruited  his 


THE    FOREST.  353 

energies,  had  drawn  largely  on  Duncan's  stock  of  sen- 
sorial  and  nervous  power ;  the  cessation  of  opposition, 
his  position  of  repose  in  the  bottom  of  the  canoe,  the 
quiet  motion,  the  regular  dip  of  the  paddle,  and  the 
soft  moonlight  hours,  completed  the  victory  of  fatigue 
and  exhaustion.  The  forests  gliding  by,  and  the  ripple 
of  the  water,  blended  into  a  dream.  The  robber  and 
ravisher  slept. 

Mary  De  Groot  laid  aside  her  mantle  gently,  and 
stepped  lightly  past  Mrs.  Duncan.  She  possessed  her 
self,  with  inexpressible  gentleness,  of  the  rifle  which 
lay  in  the  robber's  hollow  arm,  and  dropped  it  quietly 
overboard.  The  axe,  which  lay  partly  under  him, 
was  extricated  with  the  same  bold  ingenuity,  and 
shared  the  same  fate.  Lastly,  more  cautiously  still, 
she  drew  out  the  knife  stuck  in  the  ruffian's  belt,  and 
hid  it  in  her  own  bosom.  She  resumed  her  seat,  and 
then,  and  not  before,  Mrs.  Duncan  brought  the  boat 
gradually  round.  There  was  a  slight  fear  that  the 
temporary  loss  of  motion  would  wake  the  sleeper. 

"I  don't  like  to  do  it,"  whispered  his  poor  wife, 
"  but  I  should  be  wicked  to  help  him  carry  you  off, 
dear  lady." 

"  Very  wicked,"  said  Mary,  taking  the  other  paddle. 

"You  will  beg  that  he  may  not  be  hurt?  They 
will  let  him  go,  if  you  ask  them,"  said  Mrs.  Duncan. 


354  THE    FOREST. 

"I  will,"  whispered  Mary, —  "for  your  sake." 

They  glided  rapidly  down  with  the  paddles  and 
the  current.  In  half  an  hour  they  lost  a  distance 
which  it  had  cost  them  more  than  an  hour  to  gain. 

The  current  grows  stronger  and  stronger.  They 
have  already  passed  the  spot  where  Duncan  launched 
the  canoe.  Mrs.  Duncan  perceives  that  here  should 
be  a  portage,  for  although  she  is  unacquainted  with 
the  country,  her  general  knowledge  warns  her,  from 
the  increasing  swiftness  of  the  stream,  of  the  vicinity 
of  rapids  —  perhaps  a  fall :  and  already  to  her  forest 
ear  is  perceptible  their  distant  murmur.  Nay,  even 
while  they  discuss  the  course  to  be  taken,  the  canoe 
is  involved  in  a  foaming  rapid;  it  shoots  irresistibly 
down  a  black  and  arrowy  race.  They  are  enclosed 
between  high,  overarching  rocks  —  with  here  and  there 
a  cleft ;  here  and  there  a  broken  fragment  lying  in 
the  swift  stream.  Mrs.  Duncan  comprehends  their 
situation  at  once. 

"  In  a  few  moments,  dear  lady,  we  shall  be  going 
over  the  Falls,  unless  we  can  spring  on  one  of  these 
rocks." 

"Shall  we  try?"  Mary  says,  throwing  aside  her 
dark  blue  blanket. 

"And  him!"  said  poor  Mrs.  Duncan. 

"  He  aims  at  your  life,  Dorothy,  and  my  honour." 


THE    FOEEST.  355 

"Ah!  what  will  become  of  his  soul,  dear  lady?" 
"Waken  him,  then,  the  wretched  man— God  will 
protect  us." 

"  Women  !     Devils  !  " 

Duncan's  resolution  was  taken  with   the  instanta 
neous  promptitude  of  the  backwoodsman.     He  stood 
upright  in  the  frail  bark;  a  motion  of  his  foot  dashed 
it  against  a  rock,  on  which  he  sprang.     For  a  moment 
it  seemed  that  he  would  be  hurled  over  it  into  the 
water  by  his  own  impetus,  but  he  recovered  himself, 
and  at  the  same  time  the  course  of  the  canoe  was  sud 
denly  checked,  and  the  head  whirled  round.     He  held 
in  his  hand  the  rope  by  which  he  was  accustomed  to 
tie  it  to  a  bank.     Eapidly  he  pulled  in  the  light  craft. 
Mary  was  nearest   him.     He  attempted   to  drag  her  - 
out,  letting  go  the  rope  at  the  same  time.     His  purpose 
was  evident  — to  save  her  and  let  his  wife  go  over 
the  Fall.     The  struggle  was  strange  and  wild,  between 
the  fierce  bandit  and  the  delicate  girl.     She  grasped" 
the  boat  with  both  hands,  and  planted  one  foot  against 
the  rock.     The  ruffian  passed  his  arm  round  her  waist ; 
he  forced  off,  first  one  hand,  then  the  other,  but  not 
both  at  once :  with  all  his  violence  he  could  not  suc 
ceed  in  shaking  her  free.     Seizing  the  end  of  the  rope 
again,  by  an  immense  leap  he  sprang  upon  a  broader 
rock  lower  down.     The  canoe  shot  past  like  lightning 


356  THE    FOREST. 

but  again  it  was  checked,  and  he  drew  it  again  towards 
him.  Mary  had  already  taken  the  knife  from  her 
bosom,  and  begun  to  sever  the  rope.  The  blade  cut 
well,  but  the  rope  was  tough,  Duncan  pulled  hand 
over  hand,  uttering  savage  imprecations.  He  caught 
at  the  prow  just  as  the  last  strand  of  cord  was  parted 
—  but  in  vain ;  and  Mary,  hitherto  silent,  threw  the 
knife  into  the  stream  with  a  cry  of  joy. 

Two  hundred  feet  of  swift  water  sped  between  them 
and  the  green  edge  of  the  cataract. 

"Will  you  be  baptized,  Dorothy?" 

"  Yes ! "  cried  the  neophyte,  bending  her  head. 

Mary  dipped  her  hand  in  the  rushing  waters  on 
whose  steed-like  back  they  were  irresistibly  borne,  and 
poured  freely  upon  that  humble  brow,  pronouncing 
the  irievocable  formula.  The  canoe  shot  the  fall. 

Down  it  went  out  of  sight,  like  a  bit  of  plank,  and 
the  next  moment  rose  out  of  the  foam,  and  floated  on. 
Mrs.  Duncan's  strong  hands  still  grasped  the  fixed  seat, 
and  Mary's  arms  were  clasped  round  her  with  a  drown 
ing  tenacity.  The  trapper's  wife  was  self-possessed. 
Both  the  women  were  panting  with  their  plunge,  but 
unhurt.  They  suffer  the  canoe  to  right  itself,  and  to 
rise  as  far  as  it  will.  Mrs.  Duncan  rocks  the  water 
out  of  it.  She  holds  one  side  while  Mary  gets  in  on 
the  other.  They  bale  with  their  hands.  It  is  fatiguing, 


THE    FOREST.  357 

but  they  gain  rapidly ;  for  the  thin  birchen  shell  has 
received  no  damage.  Mrs.  Duncan  gets  in.  The  moon 
looks  down  between  the  high  rocks,  upon  a  boiling 
fret  of  waters,  glittering  in  her  eye  like  silver,  along 
which  the  canoe  and  the  two  women  are  borne,  guide- 
less,  oarless,  but  safe. 

But  just  as  they  were  beginning  to  slacken  the 
baling,  and  to  thank  God  for  their  deliverance,  a 
huge  stone  fell  from  above,  so  near  them  that  they 
are  covered  with  the  splash.  They  looked  up.  Dun 
can  was  running  along  the  cliffs.  He  hurled  down 
another  fragment.  The  height  is  so  great  that  he 
cannot  exactly  calculate,  but  he  pursues  the  canoe 
as  it  slowly  drifts  with  the  pacified  current,  hoping 
to  strike  it,  or  one  of  the  women,  ere  it  floats  out 
into  the  open  lake,  which  is  just  at  hand.  Another 
large  stone  comes.  His  wife  is  hit,  and  falls  back, 
while  Miss  De  Groot  shrieks.  The  fiend,  with  an 
exulting  curse,  ran  before  to  a  point  projecting  like  a 
bastion.  Here  was  a  large,  loose  stone  that  had 
fallen  from  a  higher  elevation.  He  dislodged  it  with 
difficulty  from  its  bed,  and  dragged  it  to  the  edge. 
The  canoe  floated  directly  towards  him,  and  Mary 
De  Groot,  holding  the  lifeless  body  of  her  companion 
in  her  lap,  saw  no  means  of  escape.  She  kissed  the 
little  crucifix  attached  to  her  rosary,  and  gazed, 


358  THE    FOREST. 

undaunted,  at  the  murderer.      A  thousand   thoughts 
rushed  through  her  brain. 

"  Shall  I  plunge  into  the  river  to  avoid  that 
crushing  mass? — but  if  the  boat  is  struck  by  it,  I 
shall  be  obliged  to  seek  the  shore,  or  drown.  Bather 
than  fall  into  that  man's  power  again,  I  will  —  die." 
Does  her  brain  swim,  or  does  she  really  see  him 
leap  up  upon  the  dizzy  cliff?  The  sharp  report  of 
a  rifle  shatters  the  silence,  and  the  body  of  the  ruffian 
falls  darkly,  striking  the  water  within  a  few  feet  of 
his  intended  victim.  The  canoe  passes  on  beneath 
the  bastion-like  rock,  and  from  the  shadow  of  the 
forest  cast  wide  upon  the  lake  below,  a  boat  glides 
"but  into  the  moonlight,  and  ALBAN  shouts. 


THE     FOREST.  359 


CHAPTER    XXIV. 

Adowne  the  blackish  stream  that  glided  fast, 
The  faerie  boat  with  finny  coursers  sped  ; 
And  all  those  fays  that  flew  above,  still  cast 
Sweet  flowers  upon  the  living  and  the  dead. 

The  Fairy  Huntsman. 

THE  pursuers  had  taken  a  course  as  direct  and  un 
hesitating    as    the    fugitive    himself.      Conducted    by 
Pierre,   they  had  struck  at  once  for  the  point  where 
he  conjectured  that  the  pilgrims  would  pass  the  night. 
A  slight  delay  had  occurred  at  the  spot  where  Dun 
can  had  first  taken  to  the  lake,  from  a  doubt  whether 
the  trapper  had  not  followed  the  shore   along  which 
the  women  might  possibly  be  returning,   or  at   some 
intermediate   point  of   which  they   might  be   taking 
their  repose.      As  soon  as  a  careful  examination  had 
ascertained  the  fact  that  he   had  really  a  canoe,  his 
subsequent  course  was  a  matter  of  certain  inference. 

On  arriving  at  the  portage,  from  the  extreme  im 
patience  of  Alban  to  reach  the  bivouac  of  the  females, 


360  THE    FOEEST. 

and  ascertain  their  fate,  lie  and  Pierre  pushed  on  with 
all  speed,  leaving  Morrell  and  Courtney,  who  consti 
tuted  the  remainder  of  the  party,  to  follow  with  the 
canoes.  They  arrived  at  the  smouldering  fire;  they 
found  the  camp  utensils  and  light  bundles  of  the 
pilgrims  abandoned  in  such  a  state  as  to  prove  incon- 
testably  that  they  had  been  surprised.  With  what 
terrible  anxiety  and  impatience  they  waited  for  the 
other  men  to  come  up,  may  be  imagined.  Mean 
while,  Morrell  and  Courtney,  from  their  ignorance  of 
the  locality,  had  both  got  bewildered  in  the  wood. 
Alban  began  to  shout,  in  order  to  guide  them.  He 
sent  Pierre  back.  While  he  waited  alone,  and  almost 
desponding,  a  dark,  half-naked  form  darted  out  of 
the  thicket  —  the  young  Catherine.  She  had  clam 
bered  over  rocks,  climbed  trees,  pierced  a  wilderness 
of  vines  and  briers,  to  keep  in  view  the  boat.  With 
quick  gestures,  few  words,  she  urged  Atherton  to 
retrace  his  steps,  for  the  two  women  and  their  ravisher 
were  already  going  over  the  Falls.  In  a  quarter  of 
an  hour,  Alban  and  the  girl  (the  latter  flying  on 
before  like  a  yearling  doe)  had  repassed  the  portage. 
Most  fortunately,  or  rather  providentially,  Morrell, 
when  he  found  himself  on  the  wrong  track,  had,  with 
his  usual  coolness,  retraced  his  steps,  and  they  found 
hirn  just  emerging  from  the  wood  close  to  the  lake. 


THE    FOREST.  361 

In  a  trice  the  canoe  which  he  carried  was  relaunched. 
They  entertained  slender  hopes  of  any  greater  success 
than  that  of  picking  up  one  of  the  bodies  floating 
below  the  cataract;  but  before  Morrell  had  pushed 
out  of  the  lily-pads,  the  quick  eye  of  the  Indian  girl 
caught  the  figure  of  Duncan  running  along  the  cliffs. 
The  boat  of  the  women  could  not  indeed  be  seen, 
but  the  trapper's  action,  and  Mary's  shriek  when  her 
companion  was  struck  down,  sufficiently  explained 
the  case.  A  more  conspicuous  mark  for  a  rifle-shot 
—  a  better  distance  —  could  not  have  been  offered. 
Yet  Atherton,  fearing  to  miss,  would  have  had 
Morrell  take  the  rifle,  but  the  cautious  guide  said 
that  his  hand  was  shaky  with  carrying  the  canoe. 
So  Alban  levelled,  took  a  quick  aim,  and  fired.  With 
that  falling  form  and  flitting  soul  passed  away  our 
hero's  youth. 

A  solemn  procession  dropped  down  the  moonlit 
river;  now  breasting  a  silver  lapse,  now  gliding 
through  the  clear  shadow  of  the  lining  forest. 

Pierre  led  the  advance.  The  young  Catherine 
sat  in  the  bows,  like  an  Indian  girl  cut  for  a  figure 
head,  the  "  discipline  "  of  her  namesake  still  in  her  hand. 
The  espoused  lovers  were  side  by  side  in  the  stern 
of  this  canoe.  Alban's  white  hunting-coat  was  but 
toned  to  the  throat,  and  his  shadowy  slouched  hat 

16 


362  THE    FOKEST. 

drawn  over  his  brow;  his  rifle  was  carefully  deposed 
at  his  side.  Mary  was  shrouded  from  head  to  foot  in 
one  of  the  dark  blue  mantles  of  the  squaws,  so  often 
mentioned,  and  sent  by  the  repentant  Madeleine.  In 
the  boat  which  immediately  followed,  (Morrell's,)  lay  a 
straight,  still  form,  wrapped  decently,  though  coldly,  in 
Mary's  own  mantle,  recovered  from  the  rocks  below  the 
Fall.  A  white  handkerchief  was  spread  upon  the  face. 
Last,  Courtney  plied  a  vigorous  paddle,  and  in  the 
bottom  of  the  canoe  (it  was  Duncan's)  lay  another  form, 
carelessly  bestowed,  with  uncovered  visage,  awfully 
tranquil. 

The  moon  declined.  It  was  when  it  began  to 
grow  dark  that  Atherton  and  his  companion  began 
to  converse. 

"Do  you  know,  Alban,  that  your  act  to-night  — 
so  necessary  —  so  just  —  puts  you  in  an  incapacity 
for  holy  orders  without  a  dispensation?  I  happen 
to  know,  from  the  case  of  a  young  man  that  was 
the  talk  in  Canada  last  summer." 

"I  am  aware  of  it:  —  as  I  have  no  idea  of  seek 
ing  admission  to  the  priesthood,  the  event  does  not 
give  me  much  annoyance  in  that  point  of  view." 

"I  had  a  faint  notion  that  you  had  thought  of 
such  a  thing,  either  in  your  retreat,  or  since,"  replied 
Mary,  with  hesitation. 


THE    FOREST, 


363 


"I   can   assure   you   that   no    such    thought  has 
entered  my  head." 
There  was  a  pause. 

"Jane  told  me  that  you  thought  of  going  abroad 
to  study  a  year  or  two  in  some  foreign  university." 

"My  plan  is  entirely  changed  in  that  regard. 
I  intend  to  pursue  my  profession  in  such  a  manner 
as  to  enter  upon  its  practice  at  the  earliest  possible 
date.  Three  years  to  study  law  seem  to  me-  an  age 
at  the  shortest." 

There  was  another  pause. 
"You  say  that  Jane  is  a  convert?" 
"  A  zealous  one." 

"Dear  Jane!  I  love  her  very  much  —  and  she 
loves  you,  Alban." 

"  I  should  be  sorry  to  think  otherwise. 
"  She  will  have  no  one  but  you  to  love  her  now. 
This   step  will   alienate   all   her   friends.      And  they 
will  say  —  the  world  will  believe  it  too  —  that  attach 
ment  to  you  is  the  cause." 

"  To  which  it  may  be  readily  answered,  that  I  was 
already  betrothed  to  another  when  the  change  oc 
curred." 

"  Methinks  we  should  now  contend  which  shall 
show  the  greatest  generosity,  and  sacrifice  most  for 
the  other's  happiness." 


364  THE    FOREST. 


— 


"  Whither  does  that  tend  ?  " 

"  I  will  give  you  up  to  Jane,  and  you  shall  resign 
me  for  her.  I  will  allow,  for  the  sake  of  peace,  that 
the  prize  of  generosity  is  yours/'  she  replied,  with 
quickness. 

"And  what  do  you  propose  to  do  with  yourself, 
when  this  arrangement  is  concluded  ?  " 

"While  papa  lives  I  shall  always  have  a  duty  in 
the  world  —  but  fear  not  for  me :  in  a  thousand  ways 
I  shall  be  abundantly  rewarded  and  consoled." 

"  Suppose,  Mary,  that  the  case  were  reversed,  and 
that  it  were  a  rival  of  mine  in  whose  favour  this  ex 
change  was  proposed.  Would  you  —  could  you — be 
generous,  and  take  him  in  my  place  ?  " 

"Alban!" 

"  Answer  me  —  for  as  you  would  answer,  so  will  I." 

' '  I  would  die  first  I  Good  Heaven  !  The  case  is 
not  the  same.  I  am  a  woman.  You,  Alban,  have 
already  loved  once  and  again.  Jane  herself  has  been 
regarded  by  you  with  passionate  feelings." 

"  It  may  be  so.  But  my  hour  of  fickleness  and 
folly  is  past,  I  trust.  The  affection  I  bear  you  is 
changeless  as  the  stars  above  us.  You  ask  of  me, 
therefore,  something  from  which  not  merely  rny  fidel 
ity,  but  my  delicacy  revolts.  No  I  Like  the  slave  of 
Eastern  story,  I  can  resign  you  to  my  Lord  without 


THE    FOREST.  365 

a  murmur,  but  do  not  expect  me  to  give  myself  to 
another." 

And  so  there  was  another  pause  —  longer,  more 
still  than  the  former  ones.  The  water  rippled  along 
the  canoe,  and  the  paddle  dipped  with  its  peculiar 
quiet.  Mary  had  drawn  her  mantle  over  her  face,  so 
that  nothing  could  be  discerned  under  the  hood-like 
folds  but  the  gleam  of  the  eyes,  even  so  near  as 
Atherton  was.  This  boat,  with  its  freight  of  youth 
and  love,  was  almost  as  still  as  those  which  conveyed 
the  dead  and  the  eternally  separated. 

In  fine,  it  was  not  until  they  disembarked  at  the 
grove  behind  the  mission  that  this  silence  terminated. 
The  walk  to  the  house  was  short ;  it  lay  through  the 
patch  of  wood  and  the  rear  of  the  garden.  Considering 
that  her  feet  were  free  from  shoe  or  moccasin,  Alban 
would  willingly  have  carried  Mary,  but  she  would  not 
suffer  it.  She  wound  the  mantle  closely  round  her 
with  one  hand,  and  stepped  along  with  the  elastic 
tread  of  a  forest  maid.  The  young  Catherine  bounded 
on  before  them. 

"  Forgive  me,  and  forget  what  I  have  said,"  said 
she,  as  they  approached  the  outer  door  of  her  own 
apartment,  where  they  were  to  part  company.  "  If  I 
had  known  your  feelings,  I  would  have  died  sooner 
than  have  spoken  so." 


366  THE    FOEEST. 

She  had  slackened  her  pace  to  say  it. 

"  An  apology  from  you  is  more  than  enough.  One 
kind  word  would  have  been  sufficient." 

"I  am  quite  sure  now  that  I  have  no  vocation," 
said  she,  in  a  clear  voice  —  "  quite  sure  since  last  night. 
I  fell  asleep  upon  the  martyr's  grave,  you  must  know, 
and  my  mother  appeared  to  me  again :  —  do  not  laugh 
at  me,  Alban  —  I  have  a  proof,  in  which  I  cannot  be 
deceived,  that  I  ought  to  believe  the  vision  true." 

"I  dare  say,"  he  replied,  with  a  laugh  that  came 
from  the  bottom  of  his  heart:  it  was  so  rich  and 
genial  —  like  his  father's  —  and  seemed  to  vibrate,  but 
without  causing  her  fear,  all  around  the  listening  girl. 

"Do  not  embrace  me  to-night,"  she  answered,  ex 
tending  her  hand,  "for  I  am  yet  in  the  garb  of  a 
pilgrim,  and  we  have  brought  such  mournful  company 
back!  —  Must  it  be  so?  Well,  then  —  ah!  enough! 
—  Brave  and  gentle  friend!  In  these  coming  years 
of  which  we  have  spoken,  if  Alban  is  constant,  Mary 
De  Groot  will  be  faithful." 

Thus  life  springs  up  under  the  footsteps  of  death ; 
flowers  bloom  at  the  base  of  the  sarcophagus ;  and  the 
youth  of  the  world  is  eternally  renewed. 


THE    FOREST,  367 


CHAPTEE    XXY. 


Est  enim  centrum  quoddam  amoris  Deus,  in  quo  dirigit  omnem  creatu- 
ram  pondus  arnoris. 

St.  TTwmm  of  Villanova. 

I  see  him  stand  before  the  altar  with  a  gentle  bride. 

>tium.     The  flood  of  Lovers. 


"THE   novena  is  over,  and  the  octave  too:  —  I  am 
sorry,"  said  Jane. 

"Every  thing  on  earth  must  end,  you  know.  In 
New  York  you  shall  make  as  many  novenas  as  you 
like,  and  the  octaves  will  wax  and  wane,  like  moons, 
as  the  great  Festivals  come  and  go." 

"  It  is  strange  to  have  lived  so  long  without  know 
ing  the  only  things  worth  knowing." 

"  They  will  soon  be  so  familiar  that  you  will  forget 
you  were  ever  ignorant  of  them." 

"  I  wonder  if  it  is  so  in  Heaven." 
"  Our  thrice-happy  friend,  Mrs.  Duncan  "  — 
"  Call  her  Mary  Catherine  !  "  said  Jane.     "  I  cannot 
bear  that  other  name." 


868  THE    FOREST. 

"  She  could  tell  us." 

"  If  Dorothy  is  in  Heaven,  and  sees  God  as  He  is, 
why  may  we  not  pray  to  her  ?  " 

"  So  we  may.     For  my  part,  I  do." 

"  Yet  Father  Smith  sung  a  solemn  mass  of  requiem 
on  the  day  of  her  funeral." 

"  We  never  know,  of  course  ;  but  would  that  I  were 
as  sure  of  Heaven,  as  I  feel  that  she  is  there." 

"  How  surprised  Henry  Atherton  will  be  at  the 
result  of  our  expedition ! "  said  Jane.  "  I  long,  yet 
dread,  to  see  them  again." 

"By  his  letter,  he  would  seem  not  to  be  unpre 
pared.  And  poor  Mr.  St.  Clair  will  be  consoled  in 
one  point  of  view,  more  than  he  will  be  grieved  in 
another." 

"Hush!"  answered  Jane.  "Do  you  think  that 
your  father  is  really  strong  enough  to  bear  the  jour 
ney?" 

"  They  will  contrive  a  litter  for  him  at  the  port 
ages,  and  the  rest,  you  know,  is  easy.  To-day  is  the 
ninth  of  November.  The  Indian  summer  is  soft,  but 
we  must  expect  nipping  weather  soon  among  these 
lakes,  all  say." 

"  Alban  saw  snow  on  the  Adirondack,  the  day  he 
was  out  for  deer." 

"True,  and   he   wishes   to   hunt   a   day  at  Cold 


THE    FOREST.  369 

Spring  Lake,  on  our  return,"  said  Mary,  with  a  gentle 
blush. 

"  He  seems  to  think  of  nothing  but  sport." 

"  He  is  young." 

"So  are  you,  Miss." 

"He  is  a  young  man." 

"Is  that  why  he  prefers  your  father's  society  and 
Father  Smith's  to  ours?" 

"He  cares  for  something  besides  sport,  you  see — • 
their  conversation." 

"  There  they  are  as  usual  in  the  door.  Let  us  go 
and  see  if  your  father  is  well  wrapped  up." 

"  Perhaps  we  shall  intrude." 

"Oh,  nonsense!  "  said  Jane. 

"  I  am  opposed  to  your  narrowing  your  mind  down 
to  the  pursuit  of  an  exclusive  profession,"  said  Mr.  De 
Groot.  "  We  need  some  men  of  a  thorough,  but  more 
expanded  culture.  Your  original  idea  of  studying 
for  a  year  or  two  at  a  foreign  university  was  a  just 
and  sensible  one,  nor  do  I  see  the  least  reason  why 
you  should  change  it.  I  wish  we  had  such  a  thing 
as  a  University  in  this  country,  but  we  have  not. 
You  must  then  go  abroad  to  obtain  this  magnificent 
advantage,  and  there  is  no  reason  why  you  should 
not,  for,  as  you  yourself  once  said,  we  are  essentially 
Europeans :  —  we  have  changed  our  sky,  but  not  our 

16* 


370  THE    FOREST. 

minds.  As  for  the  expense  —  you  must  not  touch  your 
little  scrip,  of  course.  There  is  no  humiliation  in 
receiving  from  a  paternal  friend,  who  has  the  greatest 
possible  interest  in  the  development  of  your  talents, 
the  facility  of  completing  your  education.  My  return 
is  to  arise  from  your  future  glory.  Three  years  is  not 
too  much  for  you  to  spend  in  study  and  travel  —  in 
a  manly  way  —  alone.  You  will  worship  in  Eome 
and  philosophize  at  Athens.  You  shall  also  see  the 
splendid  life  of  London  and  Paris,  and  study  the 
social  problems  offered  by  their  respective  countries. 
Europe  is  a  great  phenomenon.  And  you  must  know 
the  Old  World  —  you  are  capable  of  reading  its 
cipher  —  in  order  to  comprehend  the  New." 

"And  what  is  to  become  of  Mary  while  'Mr. 
Alban,  is  doing  all  this  ?  "  inquired  Jane. 

"  I  wish  to  keep  Mary  at  home  till  she  is  married," 
replied  her  father  tenderly.  "  Women,  should  be  pene 
trated  with  the  spirit  and  imbued  with  the  love  of 
their  own  country.  New  York  and  the  Manor,  and 
our  own  land,  will  do  for  my  daughter,  till  her  husband 
thinks  fit  to  show  her  the  rest  of  the  world.  These 
denationalized  .young  ladies,  whose  native  sympathies 
have  been  all  exchanged  for  the  love  of  operas,  and 
bals,  and  '  society  as  it  is  in  Paris,'  are  my  aversion, 
Miss  Jane.  There  is  noble  female  society  in  Europe, 


THE    FOREST.  371 

but  there,  as  here,  it  is  local,  and  is  found  only  in  the 
shade." 

"  Well,  all  I  know  is,"  answered  Jane  gaily,  "  that 
if  I  were  Mary,  I  never  would  trust  Alban  across  the 
water  for  three  years  by  himself. " 

"  Perhaps  she  has  the  same  opinion  as  you,  of  the 
danger,"  observed  Alban,  "  but  is  proud  enough  to 
put  my  fidelity  to  the  test." 

"  And  if  her  betrothed  prove  faithless,"  interposed 
Father  Smith,  in  his  most  courteous  foreign  manner, 
"  you  are  aware,  Miss  Jane,  that  your  friend  has  always 
a  resource." 

"  Pray,  do  not  speak  of  that,"  said  her  father  hastily. 
"Since  the  condition  no  longer  exists  on  which  her 
mother's  threat  was  suspended  —  since  I  acknowledge 
that  human  nature  is  guilty  and  expiation  necessary 

—  surely  my  loving  Foe  has  laid  aside  her  hostility, 
and  will  suifer  me  to  be  happy  in  our  daughter.     You 
were  present,  my  good  father  —  was  not  such  the  drift 
of  her  dying  prophecy  ?  " 

The  ecclesiastic  smiled:  —  "Ah!  monsieur,  I  told 
you  then  that  Almighty  God  would  not  let  such 
words  fall  to  the  ground.  I  don't  say  it  was  a 
prophecy,  mind.  But  the  fulfilment  is  what  I  call 

—  remarkable  —  certainly,  remarkable.    Yet  observe," 
continued  the    Jesuit,    "I  do  not  say  that  there  is 


372  THE    FOREST. 

any  thing  miraculous  in  all  that  has  occurred.  To 
be  sure,  there  have  been  a  good  many  extraordinary 
coincidences,  but  every  one  can  be  accounted  for 
by  strictly  natural  causes.  For  example,  the  dream 
of  Miss  De  Groot,  when  at  school,  was  probably 
an  effect  of  her  imagination  being  excited  by  an 
incident  which  had  occurred  a  little  time  before, 
united  with  the  conversation  of  her  schoolfellow  on 
the  subject  of  the  guardian  angels :  —  was  it  not  ? 
This  schoolmate  died  the  same  day  on  the  following 
year,  you  will  say :  —  but  there  is  nothing  miraculous 
in  that,"  said  the  Father,  laughing  slightly,  and  shrug 
ging  his  shoulders.  —  "People  die  all  the  days  in  the 
year,  you  know!  as  well  one  day  as  another.  It 
was  providential,  I  allow :  so  is  every  thing  that  hap 
pens,  however  apparently  fortuitous.  I  don't  deny 
that.  On  the  same  principle,  if  you  choose  to  consider 
Miss  Mary's  baptism  as  a  fulfilment  of  her  vision,  by 
a  kind  of  spiritual  interpretation,"  added  he,  smiling 
once  more,  but  gravely,  "it  is  nothing  more  than  a 
coincidence,  after  all,  that  it  took  place  on  the  day 
predicted.  The  same  secret  Providence,  by  the  ordi 
nary  operation  of  second  causes,  brought  about  both  — 
the  dream  and  the  accomplishment.  The  same  rea 
soning  holds  good  in  regard  to  your  father's  sudden 
recovery,  my  dear  child.  For  observe,  such  crises  are 


THE    FOEEST.  873 

not  uncommon  in  all  diseases,  and  we  know  too  little 
about  the  laws  of  the  nervous  system,  especially  in 
disease,  to  be  able  to  say  that  your  father,  who  was 
in  a  most  sensitive  condition,  mind  I  and  whose  whole 
consciousness  was  undoubtedly  concentrated  upon  his 
daughter,  might  not  have  been  aware,  naturally,  by 
remote  sympathy,  or  overhearing  our  conversation, 
that  something  extraordinary  had  occurred  to  her." 

"You  believe  in  Mesmerism,  sir?"  demanded 
Alban. 

"Not  at  all:  neither  do  I  disbelieve  any  thing  that 
pretends  to  be  purely  natural.  All  I  say  is  that  the 
laws  of  nature  are  very  imperfectly  known  to  us.  Our 
excellent  friend  here,  may  have  recovered  by  the 
mercy  of  God,  and  as  a  direct  answer  to  our  unworthy 
prayers,  through  the  intercession  of  the  Blessed  Virgin, 
of  course,  and  yet  from  natural  causes;  and  the 
Almighty,  who  is  the  real  Mover  of  all  such  effects, 
could  easily  cause  the  cure  to  be  simultaneous  with 
the  consummation  of  a  holy  penance,  in  order  that 
we  might  give  Him  the  glory,  as  is  due." 

"  You  allow,  then,  that  the  cure  was  obtained  by 
our  prayers  ?  "  said  Alban. 

"  Of  course,  my  dear  friend.  You  don't  take  me 
for  an  infidel  —  do  you  ?  "  exclaimed  Father  Smith, 
or  rather  de  Mornay,  laughing  at  the  idea. 


374  THE    FOEEST. 

"But  there  is  one  circumstance,  Father,"  interposed 
Jane,  who  had  listened  very  uneasily  to  this  explana 
tion —  "there  is  one  circumstance,  at  least  —  which 
cannot  possibly  be  accounted  for  except  by  a  miracle." 

The  priest's  countenance  was  as  impenetrable  as 
the  Iron  Mask,  as  he  replied  — 

"  If  you  know  any  circumstance  with  which  I  am 
unacquainted,  Miss  Jane,  —  eh  ?  I  cannot  speak  in 
regard  to  any  thing  that  I  do  not  know." 

Jane  blushed,  and  so  did  her  friend,  who  said, 
rather  quickly  and  reproachfully, 

"What  depends  on  my  sole  testimony  had  better 
not  be  told.  God  has  been  very  good  to  us  all,  I 
am  sure,  and  that  is  enough." 

"  I  think  so,"  rejoined  Father  Smith,  with  a  glance 
of  mixed  affection  and  regret  towards  his  spiritual 
daughter. 

"  The  circumstance  about  which  you  affect  so  much 
secrecy,"  observed  Atherton,  "is  known  all  over  the 
village,  through  Catherine.  For  my  part,  I  cannot 
help  regarding  it  as  a  signal  act  of  grace  that  the  only 
particular,  in  this  long  tissue  of  events,  which  comes 
under  the  head  of  a  positive  command  to  any  of  us, 
and  one  that  the  person  might  feel  some  scruple  in 
obeying,  has  been  attested,  beyond  the  possibility  of 
her  doubting  the  source  whence  it  came.  And  if  you 


THE    FOREST.  375 

consider,  Father,"  added  he,  addressing  the  missionary, 
"  how  easily  a  lovely  friend  of  ours  might  have  been 
led  by  such  events  to  miss  her  true  calling  in  life,  to 
the  danger  of  her  happiness  here  and  her  salvation 
hereafter,  you  will  agree  with  me  that  such  a  clear 
note  of  guidance  was  almost  necessary. 

"Never  mind  what  they  say,"  Jane  whispered  in 
her  friend's  quite  crimson  ear.  "Perhaps  after  all 
you  will  have  the  merit  and  the  happiness  to  choose 
the  BEST  PART." 

For  Jane  herself  had  chosen  it  —  with  a  prompt 
and  perfect  generosity — from  the  first  moment  of  her 
conversion.  And  with  a  calm,  unaffected  heroism, 
she  fulfilled  her  first  resolution.  In  the  devoted 
order  which  she  has  since  entered,  is  no  servant  of 
the  sick  and  poor,  no  spouse  of  the  Eternal  Bride 
groom,  no  handmaid  of  the  sanctuary,  more  self-deny 
ing;  more  assiduous  in  holy  contemplation  and  prayer, 
and  yet  more  cheerful,  more  unpretending,  more 
compassionate  to  the  weakness  of  others,  than  Sister 
Mary  Catherine. 

She  claims  no  merit  either  in  her  conversion,  or 
in  embracing  the  religious  state:  for  she  thinks  that 
she  was  led  to  both  by  a  disappointment  of  the  affec 
tions;  but  her  delicacy  on  that  score  is  one  of  the 
last  remains  of  earthly  feeling  still  cherished  by  the 


376  THE    FOKEST. 

once  soft-hearted  Jane :  she  never  speaks  of  it ;  and 
one  only  knows  her  sentiments  (for  hers  is  not  a  clois 
tered  order)  by  an  expression  which  she  habitually 
uses  when  she  hears  of  any  young  person  of  her  own 
sex  who  has  met  with  a^  similar  misfortune  —  "When 
the  Spouse  of  souls  woos  so  roughly,  it  is  a  sign  that 
He  is  in  earnest." 

For  it  is  useless  to  criticise  as  unsuitable  the 
method  by  which  the  Creator  captivates  the  will  of 
His  creatures  into  submission  to  Himself.  Some  are 
driven,  some  are  led.  The  most  common  channel  of 
influence,  perhaps,  is  unper verted  natural  affection. 
God  deals  with  those  whom  he  would  win,  as  wise  men 
do.  He  resorts  not  to  extraordinary  means,  when 
ordinary  are  sufficient.  It  is  a  divine  election  which 
by  the  love  of  our  natural  parents  brings  us  into 
being  and  gives  us  the  advantages  of  our  lot ;  and 
it  is  the  same  grace  which  makes  a  human  friendship, 
or  the  illusion  of  youthful  love,  the  occasion  of  our 
being  introduced  into  a  higher  life.  These  human 
affections  are  His,  and  He  knows  how  to  play  upon 
them,  as  a  cunning  musician  upon  his  instrument,  so 
as  to  adduce  a  spiritual  and  immortal  harmony  from 
material  and  perishable  chords. 

The  heart,  0  Lover  of  men,  is  Thine  own !  it 
loves  not  but  by  Thy  inspiration;  and  love  (which 


THE    FOEEST.  377 

can  find  no  other  satisfaction)  ever  leads  back  to  Thee, 
frcjm  whom  it  proceeded.  Fount  of  Love,  Thou  art 
also  its  ocean;  and  the  stream  that  has  fertilized  its 
own  peculiar  valley  of  earth,  — if  it  waste  not  un 
happily  in  the  sands  of  time,  —  as  it  came  first  from 
Thy  inaccessible  mountains  with  their  chaste,  eternal 
snows,  which  melt  but  waste  not,  for  Heaven  feeds 
them,  shall  lose  itself  at  last  in  Thy  all-embracing 
deep.  Thou  sendest  Thy  rain  upon  the  just  and  the 
unjust,  even  the  rain  of  Thy  grace.  What  merits 
not  eternal  life,  may  yet  be  a  disposition  that  con 
ducts  to  it.  We  are  Thy  children  before  we  know 
it,  before  we  are  of  Thy  fold.  In  the  bosom  of  our 
families,  in  the  communion  of  our  Churches,  (hand 
maids  and  Hagars  of  Thy  true  Spouse)  captivated  for 
a  time  by  whatever  passion,  seduced  by  whatever 
semblance  of  our  lost  EDEN,  or  our  promised  SALEM, 
it  is  not  our  wisdom  that  finds  Thee,  but  Thy  wisdom 
that  finds  us,  and  Thy  pity  that  bears  us  on  Its  shoul 
ders  home. 


378  THE    FOREST. 


CONCLUSION. 

So  far  had  we  written,  and  here  intended  to  stop, 
when  it  was  suggested  to  us  that  some  might  feel 
curious  to  know  a  little  more  definitely  what  became 
of  Alban  and  Mary  De  Groot.  The  subsequent  career 
of  the  former  it  fell  within  our  original  purpose  to 
describe  at  large,  but  as  we  have  abandoned  that 
idea,  it  may  be  well  to  give  it  here  in  brief. 

In  spite  of  all  Mr.  De  Groot  could  say,  our  hero 
bent  himself  forthwith  to  the  work  of  acquiring  his 
profession.  It  was  as  well  that  he  did  so.  In  about  a 
year  came  the  collapse  of  the  land  speculation,  and 
the  fall  of  real  estate,  which  most  of  us  can  remem 
ber  ;  with  the  crisis  of  '36-7  ;  and  the  outbreak  of  anti- 
rentism.  The  tenants  of  Wallahook  refused  to  pay 
their  manorial  lord  his  rents;  they  mobbed  his  col 
lector,  tarred  and  feathered  the  sheriff  who  attempted 
to  enforce  the  law,  and  rose  in  insurrection  against 
the  military  power  of  the  Empire  State.  Lastly,  they 
defended  against  their  Patroon  an  infinite  number  of 
vexatious  suits,  that  jeopardized  his  rights,  and  ate 
up  his  income  in  the  very  process  of  securing  it.  In 
fine,  the  few  rich  farms  that  pertained  to  the  Manor 


THE    FOREST,  379 

itself,  and  the  wiser  or  more  honest  tenants,  who  dis 
charged  the  obligations  by  which  they  held  their  lands, 
scarcely  sufficed  to  meet  the  charges  encumbering  so 
old  and  great  an  estate,  and  the  expense  of  keeping 
up  the  noble  Manor-house. 

Meanwhile,  rents  in  New  York  went  unpaid  from 
a  different  reason,  and,  without  a  harshness   that  so 
lofty  a  person  as  Mr.  De  Groot  would  not  use,  could 
not  in  all  cases  be  collected;    a  huge,  floating  debt, 
from  building,  furnishing,  and  ornamenting  his  house, 
swamped    his  immediate    resources;    and,    lastly,   he 
had    been    so    imprudent   as   to  speculate    in    stocks 
during    the    inflation    of   '35.     There   were   times  in 
'36-7,  when  he  was  forced  to  borrow  money  of  old 
Mr.   Atherton  to  meet  his  household   expenses,    and 
Mary  De   Groot  could  dispense   no   charity  that  was 
not  hardly  earned  by  the  labour  of  her  own  ingenious 
fingers,  as  if  she   had  been  the  daughter  of  a  mer 
chant's  clerk  or  a  pinched  and  salaried  book-keeper. 
As    time    went    on,   matters    grew  in  some  respects 
worse,  as  those  who  recollect  the  course  of  events  in 
those   discouraging   years   can    easily  imagine.      The 
expense  of  the  law-suits  was  not  felt  till  after  a  year 
or  two,   and  the  various   city  losses   did  not  at  an 
earlier  period  adjust  themselves  finally  into  an  alarm 
ing  deficit.     There  was  so  much  property,  that  really 


380  THE    FOKEST. 

nothing  but  patience  was  necessary  to  extricate  it; 
and  yet  it  seemed  that  a  considerable  portion  of  the 
New  York  real  estate  must  be  sold  to  clear  the  rest. 

This  extreme  point  of  depression  in  the  fortunes 
of  Mr.  De  Groot  was  reached  in  the  year  '39.  Alban 
was  just  admitted  to  the  bar;  he  was  twenty-four 
years  old ;  Mary  De  Groot  was  nearly  twenty-one. 

These  long  engagements  are  very  much  to  be 
disapproved  of,  of  course;  their  least  unhappy  effect 
is  to  take  off  all  the  fine  edge  of  the  new  intimacy 
that  marriage  establishes.  This  is  especially  the  case 
where  the  parties  reside  in  the  same  city,  and  move 
perpetually  in  the  same  circle,  and  where  the  manners 
allow  so  much  familiarity  between  engaged  people  as 
ours  do.  Let  us  peep,  then,  at  a  scene  in  the  Fifth 
Avenue  in  the  Spring  of  1839. 

Few  things  are  more  beautiful  than  June  in  Man 
hattan,  especially  in  the  finer  parts  of  the  western 
metropolis,  where  massive  elevations  of  dark-brown 
masonry  mingle  with  trees  and  gardens.  Ten  or 
twelve  years  ago  this  could  not  be  seen ;  but  Mr. 
De  Groot's  noble  mansion  then  rose  with  an  imposing 
antiquity  of  five  years  in  its  stately  free-stone  walls  and 
balconies,  and  of  forty  in  its  fruit  trees  and  shrubberies. 
In  an  oriel  —  a  famous  oriel  —  that  looked  upon  the 
gardens,  the  tinted  windows  being  thrown  open,  stood 


THE    FOREST.  381 

a  gentleman  and  lady  in  the  flower  of  their  youth. 
The  former  stood  gravely  with  arms  folded ;  the  latter 
leaned  her  head  against  the  oaken  window-frame. 

"Those  beautiful  years  have  passed,  never  to  re 
turn!" 

"  You  call  them  beautiful,  although  so  clouded  by 
seeming  adversities,  and  always  to  me,  at  least,  ren 
dered  restless  by  hope." 

"  So  is  life,  to  the  end :  —  it  is  a  saying  of  your 
own." 

"True,  and  therefore  life  is  exciting  and  interest 
ing  rather  than  beautiful." 

"Our  friendship  has  been  beautiful." 

"And  shall  be,  still." 

"I  fear  the  change." 

"And  I  —  anticipate  it  with  a  beating  heart  — 
the  time  when  I  shall,  at  length  know  you,  no  longer 
as  the  captivating  mistress,  but  as  the  wife ;  —  when 
that  veil  of  reserve  shall  be  at  last  thrown  aside,  for 
me  alone  of  all  my  kind !  " 

The  lady  was  silent,  but  her  cheek  replied  with 
a  great  deal  of  warmth. 

"  Certainly,"  continued  the  young  man,  in  a  deep, 
masculine  voice,  and  calmly  buttoning  his  glove,  as  if 
he  had  been  conversing  upon  some  idle  topic  of  the 
day, —  "certainly  we  have  to  look  forward  to  the 


382  THE    FOREST. 

serious  part  of  life ;  you,  particularly ;  —  I  comprehend 
the  magnitude  of  the  change  to  you,  in  forsaking  the 
sweet  mystery  and  self-secrecy  in  which  you  have 
hitherto  lived,  to  share  your  thoughts,  your  hours, 
your  retirement,  and  almost  your  very  prayers,  with 
another,  and,  above  all,  with  one  not  of  your  own 
sex ;  to  acknowledge  another  as  your  lord,  where 
hitherto  you  have  been  lady  of  yourself : — yes,  it  is 
a  great  sacrifice.  I  wish  I  could  spare  it  you.  I 
would,  for  your  own  sake,  keep  you  ever  as  you  are." 

A  faint  change,  between  a  tremor  and  a  smile, 
flickered  over  the  lady's  lip;  she  plucked  a  flower 
from  a  plant  that  stood  on  the  window-sill,  and 
smelled  it.  She  turned  to  her  lover,  but  with  down 
cast  eyes. 

"  Good-bye,  then !  Perhaps,  when  I  go  to  the  con 
vent  this  afternoon  to  begin  my  retreat,  I  shall  tell 
Sister  Mary  Catherine  that  she  may  prepare  me  a 
cell  and  robe,  for  that  I  am  resolved  to  remain  for 
the  rest  of  my  life." 

"  Good-bye,"  answered  he,  laughing  slightly.  "  You 
cannot  excite  my  fears.  I  do  not  wish  you  mine  ex 
cept  as  it  is  the  will  of  God,  and  that  will  must  needs 
be  accomplished." 

She  moved  away  to  the  staircase  door,  concealed, 
as  we  remember,  in  the  wainscotting  of  the  lobby,  and 


THE    FOREST.  383 

turned  only,  with  one  hand  on  the  lock,  to  offer  him 
the  other.  It  was  the  spot  where,  in  their  earliest  ac 
quaintance,  she  had  thoughtlessly  jested  with  him  of 
the  pleasant  thefts  of  lovers,  and  after  had  blushed  at 
her  own  words :  it  was  the  spot  where  they  had  once 
parted  with  half-estranged  feelings  and  reserved  de. 
meanour,  yet  with  hearts,  for  all  that,  not  so  widely 
apart.  A  flood  of  memories  came  over  her,  and  she 
burst  into  tears.  The  whole  expression  of  his  counte 
nance  instantly  changed  :  —  passion,  pity,  kindness, 
blended  in  a  deep  manly  glow  that  overspread  his 
face.  She  would  fain  have  escaped;  but  his  hand 
held  hers  as  in  a  vice.  The  girl  of  sixteen,  when  she 
used  to  run  up  that  hidden  stair,  or  pass  that  shadowy 
corner  of  the  paternal  house,  had  been  prescient,  we 
may  infer,  of  this  moment.  She  bent  back  silently 
over  his  arm  that  embraced  her ;  she  blushed,  all  wet 
with  tears,  as  the  rose  droops  its  head  in  a  summer 
shower;  but  women,  probably,  can  tell  whether  she 
was  displeased  that  the  repressed  tenderness  of  years 
burst  its  bounds  at  such  a  parting.  An  infinite  deli 
cacy  had  so  refined  their  intercourse  during  those  years, 
that  the  passion  of  the  youth  had  all  its  first  fresh 
ness,  only  matured  by  the  long  summer  of  her  beauty 
and  goodness ;  and  the  first  bloom  on  the  modesty 
of  the  girl  was  no  less  untouched.  But  this  was  just 


384  THE    FOEEST. 

eight  days  before  they  were  married,  and  they  were  to 
see  each  other  no  more  till  they  met  at  the  altar. 

This  marriage  was  a  determination  of  the  lover, 
who  for  six  years  had  the  sublime  satisfaction  of  sup 
porting  his  wife,  and  etceteras,  by  his  own  resolute 
industry.  Since  then,  affairs  have  taken  a  widely 
different  turn,  and  the  whole  family,  De  Groots  and 
Athertons,  have  been  spending  several  years  in  Europe, 
where  leisure,  study,  and  travel  are  forming,  let  us 
hope,  something  great  of  Alban  Atherton. 

And  if  the  life-long  possession  of  one  who  came  to 
him  as  a  beautiful  and  unsullied  virgin,  and  not  more 
modest  than  tender,  with  a  mind  as  lovely  as  her  form, 
should  be  a  source  of  real  felicity ;  as  it  certainly  is  the 
liveliest  earthly  image  of  happiness,  (all  the  poets  and 
romancers,  and  the  heart  of  youth,  being  witness ;)  what 
then,  again,  (it  is  the  secret  moral  of  every  tale  of  love, 
the  soft  understrain  of  every  epithalamium)  —  what 
then  is  the  bliss  of  possessing  for  ever  that  Beauty 
more  ancient  than  the  hills,  and  crowned  by  Itself  with 
stainless  youth  in  the  Eternal  Heavens ! 


THE   END. 


J.  S.  REDFIELD, 

CLINTON    HALL,   NEW    YORK, 
HAS  JUST  PUBLISHED : 


EPISODES  OF  INSECT  LIFE. 

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By  JOHN  H.  GRISCOM,  M.  D.  One  vol.  12mo,  $1.00. 

"This  comprehensive  treatise  should  be  read  by  all  who  wish  to  secure  health, 
and  especially  by  those  constructing  churches,  lecture-rooms,  school-houses,  <fec.— It 
is  undoubted,  that  many  diseases  are  created  and  spread  in  consequence  of  the  little 
attention  paid  to  proper  ventilation.  Dr.  G.  writes  knowingly  and  plainly  upon  this  all- 
important  topic." — Newark  Advertiser. 

"  The  whole  book  is  a  complete  manual  of  the  subject  of  which  it  treats ;  and  we 
venture  to  say  that  the  builder  or  contriver  of  a  dwelling,  school-house,  church,  thea 
tre,  ship,  or  steamboat,  who  neglects  to  inform  himself  of  the  momentous  truths  it 
asserts,  commits  virtually  a  crime  against  society." — N.  Y.  Metropolis. 

"  When  shall  we  learn  to  estimate  at  their  proper  value,  pure  water  and  pure  air, 
which  God  provided  for  man  before  he  made  man,  and  a  very  long  time  before  he 
permitted  the  existence  of  a  doctor  ?  We  commend  the  Uses  and  Abuses  of  Air  to  our 
readers,  assuring  them  that  they  will  find  it  to  contain  directions  for  the  ventilation  of 
dwellings,  which  every  one  who  values  health  and  comfort  should  put  in  practice."— • 
ff,  Y.  Dispatch. 


HAGAR,  A  STORY  OF  TO-DAY. 

By  ALICE  CAREY,   author  of  "  Clovernook,"   "  Lyra,  and  Other 
Poems,"  &c.     One  vol.,  12mo,  price  $1.00. 

"A  story  of  rural  and  domestic  life,  abounding  in  humor,  pathos,  and  that  natural 
ness  in  character  and  conduct  which  made  '  Clovernook'  so  great  a  favorite  last  season. 
Passages  in  '  Hagar*  are  written  with  extraordinary  power,  its  moral  is  striking  and 
just,  and  the  book  will  inevitably  be  one  of  the  most  popular  productions  of  the  sea- 
eon." 

"  She  has  a  fine,  rich,  and  purely  original  genius.  Her  country  stories  are  almost 
unequaled." — Knickerbocker  Magaiine. 

"  The  Times  speaks  of  Alice  Carey  as  standing  at  the  head  of  the  living  female  wri 
ters  of  America.  We  go  even  farther  in  our  favorable  judgment,  and  express  the  opin 
ion  that  among  those  living  or  dead,  she  has  had  no  equal  in  this  country ;  and  we  know 
of  few  in  the  annals  of  English  literature  who  have  exhibited  superior  gifts  of  real  po 
etic  genius."— The  (Portland,  Me.)  Eclectic. 


REDFIELD'S  NEW  AND  POPULAR  PUBLICATIONS 


LYRA,  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 
By  ALICE  CAREY.     In  one  volume,  12mo,  cloth,  price  75  cts. 

"Whether  poetry  be  defined  as  the  rhythmical  creation  of  beauty,  as  passion  or  elo 
quence  in  harmonious  numbers,  or  as  thought  and  feeling  manifested  by  processes  of 
the  imagination,  Alice  Carey  is  incontestably  and  incomparably  the  first  living  American 
poetess— fresh,  indigenous,  national — rich  beyond  precedent  in  suitable  and  sensuous  im- 

a<rery of  the  finest  and  highest  qualities  of  feeling,  and  such  powers  of  creation  as  the 

Almighty  has  seen  fit  to  bestow  but  rarely  or  in  far-separated  countries."— Bost.  Trans. 

"  The  genuine  inspiration  of  poetic  feeling, . . .  replete  with  tenderness  and  beauty, 
earnestness  and  truthful  simplicity,  and  all  the  attributes  of  a  powerful  imagination  and 
vivid  fancy.  We  know  of  no  superior  to  Miss  Carey  among  the  female  authors  of  this 
country."— '-New  York  Journal  of  Commerce. 

"Alice  Carey's  book  is  full  of  beautiful  thoughts;  there  is  draught  after  draught  of, 
pure  pleasure  for  the  lover  of  sweet,  tender  fancies,  and  imagery  which  captivates 
while  it  enforces  truth." — New  York  Courier  and  Inquirer. 

"  'Lyra  and  other  Poems,'  just  published  by  Redfield,  attracts  everywhere,  a  remark 
able  degree  of  attention.  A  dozen  of  the  leading  journals,  and  many  eminent  critics, 
have  pronounced  the  authoress  the  greatest  poetess  living." — New  York  Mirror. 


LILLIAN,  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 

By  WINTHROP  MACKWORTH  PRAED.     Now  first  Collected.     One 
'Volume  I2mo.      Price  One  Dollar. 

"  A  timely  publication  is  this  volume.  A  more  charming  companion  (in  the  shape  of 
a  book)  can  scarcely  be  found  for  the  summer  holydays." — New  York  Tribune, 

"  They  are  amusing  sketches,  gay  and  sprightly  in  their  character,  exhibiting  great 
facility  of  composition,  and  considerable  powers  of  satire." — Hartford  Courant. 

"  There  is  a  brilliant  play  of  fancy  in  '  Lillian,'  and  a  moving  tenderness  in  '  Josephine,' 
for  which  it  would  be  hard  to  find  equals.  We  welcome,  therefore,  this  first  collected 
edition  of  his  works." — Albany  Express. 

"  As  a  writer  of  vers  de  societe  he  is  pronounced  to  be  without  an  equal  among  Eng 
lish  authors." — Syracuse  Daily  Journal. 

"  The  author  of  this  volume  was  one  of  the  most  fluent  and  versatile  English  poets  that 
have  shone  in  the  literary  world  within  the  last  century.  His  versification  is  astonish 
ingly  easy  and  airy,  and  his  imagery  not  less  wonderfully  graceful  and  aerial." — Albany 
State  Register. 


THE  CAVALIERS  OF  ENGLAND; 

Or,  the  Times  of  the  Revolutions  of  1642  and   1688.     By  HENRY 
WILLIAM  HERBERT.     One  vol.,  12mo.,  price  $1.25. 

"  They  are  graphic  stories,  and  in  the  highest  degree  attractive  to  the  imagination  as 
well  as  instructive,  and  can  not  fail  to  be  popular." — Commercial. 

"  These  tales  are  written  in  the  popular  author's  best  style,  and  give  us  a  vivid  and 
thrilling  idea  of  the  customs  and  influences  of  the  chivalrous  age." — Christian  Freeman. 

"  His  narrative  is  always  full  of  great  interest ;  his  descriptive  powers  are  of  an  un 
common  order ;  the  romance  of  history  loses  nothing  at  his  hands  ;  he  paints  with  the 
power,  vigor,  and  effect  of  a  master." — The  Time*. 

"  They  bring  the  past  days  of  old  England  vividly  before  the  reader,  and  impress  upon 
the  mind  with  indelible  force,  the  living  images  of  the  puritans  as  well  as  the  cavaliers, 
whose  earnest  character  and  noble  deeds  lend  such  a  lively  interest  to  the  legends  of 
the  times  in  which  they  lived  and  fought,  loved  and  hated,  prayed  and  revelled."— New 
ark  Dotty. 


REDFIELD'S  NEW  AND  POPULAR  PUBLICATIONS. 


ISA,  A  PILGRIMAGE. 
By  CAROLINE  CHESEBRO'.     One  vol.,  12mo.,  cloth,  price  $1.00. 

"  The  Pilgrimage  is  fraught  throughout  with  scenes  of  thrilling  interest — romantic, 
yet  possessing  a  naturalness  that  seems  to  stamp  them  as  real ;  the  style  is  flowing  and 
easy,  chaste  and  beautiful."— Troy  Daily  Times. 

'•  Miss  Chesebro'  is  evidently  a  thinker— she  skims  not  the  mere  surface  of  life,  but 
plunges  boldly  into  the  hidden  mysteries  of  the  spirit,  by  which  she  is  warranted  in 
making  her  startling  revelations  of  human  passion."—  Christian  Freeman. 

"There  comes  out  in  this  book  the  evidence  of  an  inventive  mind,  a  cultivated  taste, 
an  exquisite  sensibility,  and  a  deep  knowledge  of  human  nature." — Albany  Argus. 

"  It  is  a  charming  book,  pervaded  by  a  vein  of  pure  ennobling  thought." — Troy  Whig, 

"  There  is  no  one  who  will  doubt  that  this  is  a  courageous  and  able  work,  displaying 
genius  and  depth  of  feeling,  and  striking  at  a  high  and  noble  aim." — N.  Y.  Evangelist. 

"  There  is  a  fine  vein  of  tenderness  running  through  the  story,  which  is  peculiarly 
one  of  passion  and  sentiment." — Arthur's  Home  Gazette. 


LECTURES  AND  MISCELLANIES. 
BY  HENRY  JAMES.     One  vol.,  12mo.,  cloth,   price  $1.25. 

"A  series  of  essays  by  one  of  the  most  generous  thinkers  and  sincere  lovers  of  truth 
in  the  country.  He  looks  at  society  from  an  independent  point  of  view,  and  with  the 
noblest  and  most  intelligent  sympathy."— Home  Journal. 

"This  is  the  production  ot  a  mind  richly  endowed  of  a  very  peculiar  mould.  All 
will  concede  to  him  the  merit  of  a  vigorous  and  brilliant  intellect."— A Ibany  Argus. 

"  A  perusal  of  the  essays  leads  us  to  think,  not  merely  because  of  the  ideas  which 
they  contain,  but  more  because  the  ideas  are  earnestly  put  forth,  and  the  subjects  dis 
cussed  are  interesting  and  important  to  every  one." — Worcester  National  JEgis. 

"  They  have  attracted  much  attention  both  here  and  in  Europe,  where  the  author  is 
considered  as  holding  a  distinctive  and  prominent  position  in  the  school  of  modern 
philosophy." — Albany  Atlas. 

"  The  writer  wields  a  masterly  and  accurate  pen,  and  his  style  is  good." — Boston 
Olive  Branch. 

"  It  will  have  many  readers,  and  almost  as  many  admirers."— .ZV.  Y.  Times. 


NAPIERS  PENINSULAR  WAR. 

History  of  the  War  in  the  Peninsula,  and  in  the  South  of  France, 
from  the  Year  1807  to  1814.  BY  W.  F.  P.  NAPIER,  C.B.,  Col. 
43d  Reg.,  &c.  Complete  in  one  vol.,  8vo.,  price  $3.00. 

"  We  believe  the  Literature  of  War  has  not  received  a  more  valuable  augmentation 
this  century  than  Col.  Napier's  justly  celebrated  work.  Though  a  gallant  combatant  in 
the  field,  he  is  an  impartial  historian." — Tribune. 

41  NAPIER'S  History,  in  addition  to  its  superior  literary  merits  and  truthful  fidelity, 

E resents  stron?  claims  upon  the  attention  of  all  American  .citizens ;  because  the  author 
>  a  large-souled  philanthropist,  and  an  inflexible  enemy  to  ecclesiastical  tyranny  and 
secular  despots." — Post. 

"  The  excellency  of  Napier's  History  results  from  the  writer's  happy  talent  for  im 
petuous,  straight-forward,  soul-stirring  narrative  and  picturing  forth  of  characters 
The  military  manoeuvre,  march,  and  fiery  o»set,  the  whole  whirlwind  vicissitudes  of 
the  desperats  fight,  he  describes  with  dramatic  force." — Merchants'  Magazine. 


REDFIELD  S  NEW  AND  POPULAR  PUBLICATIONS. 


EEICHENBACH  ON  DYNAMICS. 

Physico-Physiological  Researches  on  the  Dynamics  of  Magnetism, 
Electricity,  Heat,  Light,  Crystallization,  and  Chemism,  in  their 
relation  to  Vital  Force:  By  Baron  CHARLKS  VON  REICHENBACH. 
With  the  Addition  of  a  Preface  and  Critical  Notes,  by  JOHN 
ASHBURNER,  M.  D.  With  all  the  Plates.  In  one  Volume, 
12mo,  456  pp.  Price,  $1.25. 

"  This  book  is  a  valuable  addition  to  scientific  knowledge  upon  subjects  that  have  hith 
erto  been  involved  in  obscurity  and  mysticism.  Charlatans  have  so  long  availed  them 
selves  of  a  slight  knowledge  of  the  phenomena  of  magnetism  for  mercenary  purposes, 
that  discredit  has  been  thrown  upon  the  whole  subject,  and  men  of  science  have  been 
deterred  from  pursuing,  or  at  least  from  publishing  their  researches.  The  work  before 
us  gives  the  result  of  a~vast  number  of  experiments  conducted  with  great  philosophical 
acumen,  testing  the  truth  of  both  modern  theories  and  ancient  superstitions.  Phenom 
ena  attributed  in  past  ages  to  a  supernatural  agency,  and  by  the  superficial  skepticism 
of  later  times  dismissed  as  mere  impostures,  are  in  many  instances  traced  with  great 
clearness  to  natural  and  explicable  causee.  It  requires,  and  is  eminently  worthy  of  an 
attentive  perusal." —  City  Item. 


THE  CELESTIAL  TELEGRAPH: 

Or,  Secrets  of  the  World  to  Come,  revealed  through  Magnetism  f 
wherein  the  Existence,  the  Form,  and  the  Occupations  of  the  Soul, 
after  its  Separation  from  the  Body,  are  proved  by  Many  Years' 
Experiments,  by  the  Means  of  eight  Ecstatic  Somnambulists,  who 
had  eighty  Perceptions  of  thirty-six  Deceased  Persons  of  various 
Conditions.  A  description  of  them,  their  Conversation,  etc.,  with 
Proofs  of  their  Existence  in  the  Spiritual  World.  By  L.  ALPH. 
CAHAGNET.;  In  one  volume,  12mo,  410  pp.  Price  $1.25. 

"Mr.  Cahagnet  has  certainly  placed  the  human  race  under  a  vast  debt  of  obligation 
to  himself,  by  the  vast  amount  of  information  vouchsafed  respecting  our  hereafter. 
What  we  have  read  in  this  volume  has  exceedingly  interested  us  in  many  ways  and  for 
many  reasons — chiefly,  perhaps,  because  we  have  perused  it  as  we  would  any  other 
able  work  of  fiction.  As  a  work  of  imagination,  it  is  almost  incomparable.  Some  of  • 
the  revelations  are  as  marvellous  and  interesting  as  those,  or  that,  of  Poe's  M.  Valde- 
tnar.  We  commend  this  work  to  lovers  of  the  wild  and  incredible  in  romance."— 
Ontario  Repository. 


STTLLIN&S  PNEUMATOLOGY. 

Theory  of  Pneumatology ;  in  Reply  to  the  Qnestion,  What  ought  to 
be  believed  or  disbelieved  concerning  Presentiments,  Visions,  and 
Apparitions,  according  to  Nature,  Reason,  and  Scripture.  By 
Doct.  JOHANN  HEINRICH  JUNG- STILLING.  Translated  from  the 
German,  with  copious  Notes,  by  SAMUEL  JACKSON.  Edited  by 
Rev.  GEORGE  BUSH.  In  one  vol.,  12mo,  300  pp.  Price  $1. 

"We  have  in  the  course  of  the  discussion,  a  philosophical  account  of  the  magnetic 
influence,  as  showing  the  influence  of  mind  upon  mind,  as  well  as  of  various  other  an 
alogous  subjects.  The  array  of  facts  broi%ht  forward  by  the  author  is  curious,  and  the 
work  will  interest  anv  one  who  is  engaged  in  studying  the  different  phases  of  the  hu 
man  mind." — State  Register. 


REDFIELD  S  NEW  AND  POPULAR  PUBLICATIONS. 


POETICAL   WORKS  OF  FITZ-GREENE  HALLECK. 

New  and  only  Complete  Edition,  containing  several  New  Poems, 
together  with  many  now  first  collected.  One  vol.,  12mo.,  price 
one  dollar. 

"  Halleck  is  one  of  the  brightest  stars  in  our  American  literature,  and  hie  name  is 
like  a  household  word  wherever  the  English  language  is  spoken." — Albany  Express. 

"There  are  few  poems  to  be  found,  in  any  language,  that  surpass,  in  beauty  of 
thought  and  structure,  some  of  these."— Boston  Commonwealth. 

"  To  the  numerous  admirers  of  Mr.  Halleck,  this  will  be  a  welcome  book ;  for  it  is  a 
characteristic  desire  in  human  nature  to  have  the  productions  of  our  favorite  authors 
in  an  elegant  and  substantial  form." — Christian  Freeman. 

"  Mr.  Halleck  never  appeared  in  a  better  dress,  and  few  poets  ever  deserved  a  better 
one." — Christian  Intelligencer. 


THE  STUDY  OF  WORDS. 
By  Archdeacon  R.  C.  TRENCH.     One  vol.,  12mo.,  price  75  cts. 

"  He  discourses  in  a  truly  learned  and  lively  manner  upon  the  originRl  unity  of  Ian- 
guage,  and  the  origin,  derivation,  and  history  of  words,  with  their  morality  and  sep 
arate  spheres  of  meaning." — Evening  Post 

"  This  is  a  noble  tribute  to  the  divine  faculty  of  speech.  Popularly  written,  for  use 
as  lectures,  exact  in  its  learning,  and  poetic  in  its  vision,  it  is  a  book  at  once  for  the 
scholar  and  the  general  reader."— New  York  Evangelist. 

"It  is  one  of  the  most  striking  and  original  publications  of  the  day,  with  nothing  of 
hardness,  dullness,  or  dryness  about  it,  but  altogether  fresh,  lively,  and  entertaining." 
— Boston  Evening  Traveller. 


BRONCHITIS,  AND  KINDRED  DISEASES. 

In  language  adapted  to  common  readers.     By  W.  W.  HALL,  M.  D. 

One  vol.,  12  mo,  price  $1.00. 

"It  is  written  in  a  plain,  direct,  common-sense  style,  and  is  free  from  the  quackery 
which  marks  many  of  the  popular  medical  books  of  the  day.  It  will  prove  useful  to 
those  who  need  it."—  Central  Ch.  Herald. 

"  Those  who  are  clergymen,  or  who  are  preparing  for  the  sacred  calling,  and  public 
speakers  generally,  should  not  fail  of  securing  this  work." — Ch.  Ambassador. 

"  It  is  full  of  hints  on  the  nature  of  the  vital  organs,  and  does  away  with  much  super 
stitious  dread  in  regard  to  consumption." — Greene  County  Whig. 

•'  This  work  gives  some  valuable  instruction  in  regard  to  food  and  hygienic  influ 
ences."—  Nashua  Oasis''. 


KNIGHTS  OF  ENGLAND,  FRANCE,  AND  SCOTLAND. 
By  HENRY  WILLIAM  HERBERT.     One  vol.,  12mo.,  price  $1.25. 

"  They  are  partly  the  romance  of  history  nnd  partly  fiction,  forming,  when  blended, 

Eortraitures,  valuable  from  the  correct  drawing  of  the  times  they  illustrate,  and  interest- 
ig  from  their  romance." — Albany  Knickerbocker. 

"  They  are  spirit-stirring  productions,  which  will  be  read  and  admired  by  all  who 
are  pleased  with  historical  tales  written  in  a  vigorous,  bold,  and  dashing  style." — Boston 
Journal. 

"  These  legends  of  love  nnd  chivalry  contain  some  of  the  finest  tales  which  the 
graphic  and  powerful  pea  of  Herbert  has  yet  given  to  the  lighter  literature  of  the  day." 
-Detroit  Free  Press. 


REDFIELD'S  NEW  AND  POPULAR  PUBLICATIONS. 


CHARACTERS  IN  THE  GOSPEL, 

Illustrating  Phases  of  Character  at  the  Present  Day.     By  Rev.  E. 
H.  CHAPIN.     One  vol.,  12mo.,  price  50  cents.     (Second  edition.) 

"  As  we  read  his  pages,  the  reformer,  the  sensualist,  the  skeptic,  the  man  of  the 
world,  the  seeker,  the  sister  of  charity  and  of  faith,  stand  out  from  the  Scriptures,  and 
join  themselves  with  our  own  living  world."— Christian  Enquirer. 

"  Mr.  Chapin  has  an  easy,  graceful  style,  neatly  touching  the  outlines  of  his  pictures, 
and  giving  great  consistency  and  beauty  to  the  whole.  The  reader  will  find  admirable 
descriptions,  some  most  wholesome  lessons,  and  a  fine  spirit"— N.  Y.  Evangelist. 

"  Its  brilliant  vivacity  of  style  forms  an  admirable  combination  with  its  soundness  of 
thought  and  depth  of  feeling."—  Tribune. 


LADIES  OF  THE  COVENANT: 

Memoirs  of  Distinguished  Scottish  Females,  embracing  the  Period 
of  the  Covenant  and  the  Persecution.  By  Rev.  JAMES  ANDER 
SON.  One  vol.,  12mo.,  price  $1.25. 

"It  is  a  record  which,  while  it  confers  honor  on  the  sex,  will  elevate  the  heart,  and 
strengthen  it  to  the  better  performance  of  every  duty."— Religious  Herald.  (Va.) 

"  It  is  a  book  of  great  attractiveness,  having  not  only  the  freshness  of  novelty,  but 
every  element  of  historical  interest."— Courier  and  Enquirer. 

"  It  is  written  with  great  spirit  and  a  hearty  sympathy,  and  abounds  in  incidents  of 
more  than  a  romantic  interest,  while  the  type  ot  piety  it  discloses  is  the  noblest  and 
most  elevated."— N.  Y.  Evangelist. 


Oft 


TALES  AND  TRADITIONS  OF  HUNGARY. 
By  THERESA  PULSZKT,  with  a  Portrait  of  the  Author.     One  vol., 

price  $1.25. 

THE  above  contains,  in  addition  to  the  English  publication,  a  NEW  PREFACE,  and 
TALES,  now  first  printed  from  the  manuscript  of  the  Author,  who  has  a  direct  interest 
in  the  publication. 

"  This  work  claims  more  attention  than  is  ordinarily  given  to  books  of  its  class.  Such 
is  the  fluency  and  correctness — nay,  even  the  nicety  and  felicity  of  style— with  which 
Madame  Pulszky  writes  the  English  language,  that  merely  in  this  respect  the  tales  here 
collected  form  a  curious  study.  But  they  contain  also  highly  suggestive  illustrations  of 
national  literature  and  character."— London  Examiner. 

"Freshness  of  subject  is  invaluable  in  literature — Hungary  is  still  fresh  ground.  It 
has  been  trodden,  but  it  is  not  yet  a  common  highway.  The  tales  and  legends  are  very 
various,  from  the  mere  traditional  anecdote  to  the  regular  legend,  and  they  have  the 
•ort  of  interest  which  all  national  traditions  excite."— London  Leader. 


SORCERY  AND  MAGIC. 

Narratives  of  Sorcery  and  Magic,  from  the  most  Authentic  Sources, 
By  THOMAS  WRIGHT,  A.M.,  &c.     One  vol.  12mo.,  price  $1.25. 

"  We  have  no  hesitation  in  pronouncing  this  one  of  the  most  interesting  works  which 
has  for  a  long  time  issued  from  the  press." — Albany  Express. 

"  The  narratives  are  intensely  interesting,  and  the  more  so,  as  they  are  evidently  writ 
ten  by  a  man  whose  object  is  simply  to  tell  the  truth,  and  who  is  not  himself  bewitched 
by  any  favorite  theory."— N  Y.  Recorder 


REDFIELD'S  NEW  AND  POPULAR  PUBLICATIONS. 


THE  NIGHT-SIDE  ON  NATURE; 

Or,  Ghosts  and  Ghost-Seers.     By  CATHARINE  CROWE.    One  vol., 

12mo.,  price  $1.25. 

"In  this  remarkable  work,  Miss  Crowe,  who  writes  with  the  vigor  ard  grace  of  a 
woman  of  strong  sense  and  high  cultivation,  collects  the  most  remarkable  and  best  au 
thenticated  accounts,  traditional  and  recorded,  of  preternatural  visitations  and  appear 
ances." — Boston  Transcript. 

"  An  almost  unlimited  fund  of  interesting  illustrations  and  anecdotes  touching  the 
spiritual  world." — New  Orleans  Bee. 


THE  WORKS  OF  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE; 

Complete  in  Three  Volumes,  with  a  Portrait,  a  Memoir  by  James 
Russell  Lowell,  and  an  Introductory  Essay  by  N.  P.  Willis;  edit 
ed  by  Rufus  W.  Griswold.  12mo.,  price  $4.00. 

"  We  need  not  say  that  these  volumes  will  be  found  rich  in  intellectual  excitements, 
and  abounding  in  remarkable  specimens  of  vigorous,  beautiful,  and  highly  suggestive 
composition ;  they  are  all  that  remain  to  us  of  a  man  whose  uncommon  genius  it  would 
be  folly  to  deny."— N.  Y.  Tribune. 

"  Mr.  Poe's  intellectual  character — his  genius — is  stamped  upon  all  his  productions, 
and  we  shall  place  these  his  works  in  the  library  among  those  books  not  to  be  parted 
With."— N.  Y.  Commercial  Advertiser. 

"  These  productions  will  live.  They  bear  the  stamp  of  true  genius ;  and  if  their  repu 
tation  begins  with  a  '  fit  audience  though  few,'  the  circle  will  be  constantly  widening, 
and  they  will  retain  a  prominent  place  in  our  literature." — Rev.  Dr.  Kip. 


CHAPMAN'S  AMERICAN  DRAWING-BOOK. 

The  American  Drawing-Book,  intended  for  Schools,  Academies,  and 
Self-Instruction.  By  JOHN  G.  CHAPMAN,  N.  A.  Three  Parts 
now  published,  price  50  cents  each. 

THIS  Work  will  be  issued  in  Parts ;  and  will  contain  Primary  Instruction  and  Rudi 
ments  of  Drawing :  Drawing  from  Nature  —  Materials  and  Methods  :  Perspective  — 
Composition  —  Landscape  —  Figures,  etc.  :  Drawing,  as  applicable  to  the  Mechanic  Arts : 
Painting  in  Oil  and  Water  Colors :  The  Principles  of  Light  and  Shade :  External  Anato 
my  of  the  Human  Form,  and  Comparative  Anatomy  :  The  Various  Methods  of  Etching, 
Engraving,  Modelling,  &c. 

"  It  has  received  the  sanction  of  many  of  our  most  eminent  artists,  and  can  scarcely 
be  commended  too  highly." — N.  Y.  Tribune. 

•'  But  so  clearly  are  its  principles  developed  in  the  beautiful  letter-press,  and  so  exquis 
itely  are  they  illustrated  by  the  engravings,  that  the  pupil's  way  is  opened  most  invi 
tingly  to  a  thorough  knowledge  of  both  the  elements  and  application." — Home  Journal. 

"The  engravings  are  superb,  and  the  typography  unsurpassed  by  any  book  with 
which  we  are  acquainted.  It  is  an  honor  to  the  author  and  publisher,  and  a  credit  to 
our  common  country." — Scientific  American. 

"  This  work  is  so  distinct  and  progressive  in  its  instructions  that  we  can  not  well  see 
how  it  could  fail  to  impart  a  full  and  complete  knowledge  of  the  art.  Nothing  can  via 
with  it  in  artistic  and  mechanical  execution.'' — Knickerbocker  Magazine. 


REDFIEL&S 

TOY     BOOKS, 

FOUR  SERIES  OF  TWELVE  BOOKS  EACH, 


FROM  DESIGNS  BY  J.  G     CHAPMAN. 


First  Series— Price  One  Cent. 

1.  Tom  Thumb's  Picture  Alphabet,  in  Rhyme. 

2.  Rhymes  for  the  Nursery. 

3.  Pretty  Rhymes  about  Birds  and  Animals,  for  little  Boya  and  Girls. 

4.  Life  on  the  Farm,  in  Amusing  Rhyme. 

5.  The  Story-Book  for  Good  Little  Girls. 

6.  The  Beacon,  or  Warnings  to  Thoughtless  Boys. 

7.  The  Picture  Book,  with  Stories  in  Easy  Words,  for  Little  Reader?. 

8.  The  Little  Sketch-Book,  or  Useful  Objects  Illustrated. 

9.  History  of  Domestic  Animals. 

10.  The  Museum  of  Birds. 

11.  The  Little  Keepsake,  a  Poetic  Gift  for  Children. 

12.  The  Book  of  the  Sea,  for  the  Instruction  of  Little  Sailors. 

Second  Series— Price  Two  Cents. 

1.  The  A  B  C  in  Verse,  for  Young  Learners. 

2.  Figures  in  Verse,  and  Simple  Rhymes,  for  Little  Learners. 

3.  Riddles  for  the  Nursery. 

4.  The  Child's  Story-Book. 

5.  The  Christmas  Dream  of  Little  Charles. 

6.  The  Basket  of  Strawberries. 

7.  Story  for  the  Fourth  of  July,  an  Epitome  of  American  History 

8.  The  Two  Friends,  and  Kind  Little  James. 

9.  The  Wagon-Boy,  or  Trust  in  Providence. 

10.  Paulina  and  Her  Pets. 

11.  Simple  Poems  for  Infant  Minds. 

12.  Little  Poems  for  Little  Children. 

Third  Series— Price  Four  Cents. 

1.  The  Alphabet  in  Rhyme. 

2.  The  Multiplication  Table  in  Rhyme,  for  Young  Arithmeticians. 

3.  The  Practical  Joke,  or  the  Christmas  Story  of  Uncle  Ned. 

4.  Little  George,  or  Temptation  Resisted. 

5.  The  Young  Arithmetician,  or  the  Reward  of  Perseverance. 

6.  The  Traveller's  Story,  or  the  Village  Bar-Room. 

7.  The  Sagacity  and  Intelligence  of  the  Horse. 

8  The  Young  Sailor,  or  the  Sea-Life  of  Tow  Bowline. 
9.  The  Selfish  Girl,  a  Tale  of  Truth. 

10.  Manual  or  Finger  Alphabet,  used  by  the  Deaf  and  Dumb. 

11.  The  Story-Book  in  Verse. 

12.  The  Flower- Vase,  or  Pretty  Poems  for  Good  little  Children. 

Fourth  Series— Price  Six  Cents. 

1.  The  Book  of  Fables,  in  Prose  and  Verse 

2.  The  Little  Casket,  filled  with  Pleasant  Stories. 

3.  Home  Pastimes,  or  Enigmas,  Charades,  Rebuses,  Conundrums,  etc. 

4.  The  Juvenile  Sunday-Book,  adapted  to  the  Improvement  of  the  Young 

5.  William  Seaton  and  the  Butterfly,  with  its  Interesting  History. 

6.  The  Young  Girl's  Book  of  Healthful  Amusements  and  Exercises. 

7.  Theodore  Carleton,  or  Perseverance  against  Ill-Fortune. 

8  The  Aviary,  or  Child's  Book  of  Birds. 

9  The  Jungle,  or  Child's  Book  of  Wild  Animals. 

10.  Sagacity  and  Fidelity  of  the  Dog,  Illustrated  by  Interesting  Anecdotea 

LI.  Coverings  for  the  Head  and  Feet,  in  all  Ages  and  Countries. 

12,  Romance  of  Indian  History,  or  Incidents  in  the  Early  Settlements. 


CONTEMPOEARY  BIOGRAPHY. 

MEN  OF  THE  TIME, 

OK  SKETCHES  OF  LIVING  NOTABLES, 

AUTHORS  ENGINEERS  '  PHILANTHROPISTS 

ARCHITECTS         JOURNALISTS  PREACHERS 

ARTISTS  MINISTERS  SAVANS 

COMPOSERS  MONARCHS  STATESMEN 

DEMAGOGUES       NOVELISTS  TRAVELLERS 

DIVINES  POLITICIANS  VOYAGERS 

DRAMATISTS          POETS  WARRIORS 

In  One  Vol.,  I2mo,  containing  nearly  Nine  Hundred  Biograph 
ical  Sketches — PRICE  $1.50. 

"  I  am  glad  to  learn  that  you  are  publishing  this  work.  It  is  precisely  that  kind  of 
information  that  every  public  and  intelligent  man  desires  to  see,  especially  in  reference 
to  the  distinguished  men  of  Europe,  but  which  I  have  found  it  extremely  difficult  to 
obtain." — Extract  from  a  Letter  of  the  President  of  the  United  States  to  the  publisher. 

'•  In  its  practical  usefulness  this  work  will  supply  a  most  important  desideratum."— 
Courier  fy  Enquirer. 

"  It  forms  a  valuable  manual  for  reference,  especially  in  the  American  department, 
which  we  can  not  well  do  without ;  we  commend  it  to  the  attention  of  our  '  readin" 
public.'"—  Tribune. 

"  Just  the  book  we  have  desired  a  hundred  times,  brief,  stntistical  and  biographical 
sketches  of  men  now  living,  in  Europe  and  America." — New  York  Observer. 

"  It  is  a  book  of  reference  which  every  newspaper  reader  should  have  at  his  elbow — 
as  indispensable  as  a  map  or  a  dictionary — and  from  which  the  best-informed  will  de 
rive  instruction  and  pleasure." — Evangelist. 

"  This  book  therefore  fills  a  place  in  literature  ;  and  once  published,  we  do  not  see 
how  any  one  could  do  without  it." — Albany  Express. 

"It  is  evidently  compiled  with  great  care  and  labor,  and  every  possible  means  seems 
to  have  been  used  to  secure  the  highest  degree  of  correctness.  It  contains  a  great  deal 
of  valuable  information,  and  is  admirable  as  a  book  of  reference." — Albany  Argus. 

"It  is,  to  our  notion,  the  most  valuable  collection  of  contemporary  biographies  yet 
made  in  this  or  any  other  country  The  author  acknowledges  that  its  compilation  was 
a  '  labor  of  care  and  responsibility.'  We  believe  him,  and  we  give  him  credit  for  hav 
ing  executed  that  labor  after  a  fashion  that  will  command  general  and  lasting  approv 
al." — Sunday  Times,  and  Noah's  Weekly  Messenger. 

"  This  is  one  of  the  most  valuable  works  lately  issued— valuable  not  only  for  general 
reading  and  study,  but  as  a  book  of  reference.  It  is  certainly  the  fullest  collection  of 
contemporary  Biographies  yet  made  in  this  country." — Troy  Daily  Times. 

"  This  is  emphatically  a  book  worthy  of  the  name,  and  will  secure  an  extended  pop 
ularity." — Detroit  Daily  Advertiser. 

"A  book  of  reference  unequalled  in  either  value  or  interest.  It  is  indeed  a  grand  sup 
plement  and  appendix  to  the  modern  histories,  to  the  reviews,  to  the  daily  newspapers 
-a  book  which  a  man  anxious  to  be  regarded  as  intelligent  and  well-informed,  can  no 
more  do  without,  than  a  churchman  can  do  without  his  prayer  hook,  a  sailor  his  navi 
gator,  or  a  Wall  street  man  his  almanac  and  interest  tables." — New  York  Day  Book. 

"The  volume  once  known  will  be  found  indispensable,  and  will  prove  a  constant 
oource  of  information  to  readers  at  large." — N.  Y.  Reveille. 

"  For  a  book  of  reference,  this  volume  will  recommend  itself  as  an  invaluable  com- 
panion  in  the  library,  office,  and  studio." — Northern  Budget. 

"  It  is  a  living  breathing  epitome  of  the  day,  a  directory  to  that  wide  phantasmagoria 
we  call  the  world." — Wall  Street  Journal. 

"  We  know  of  no  more  valuable  book  to  authors,  editors,  statemen,  and  all  who 
would  be  '  up  with  the  time,'  than  this." — Spirit  of  the  Times. 

"  Men  of  all  nations,  creeds  and  parties,  appear  to  be  treated  in  a  kindly  spirit.  The 
work  will  be  found  a  useful  supplement  to  the  ordinary  biographical  dictionaries."— 
Commercial  Advertiser. 

"The  value  of  such  a  work  can  scarcely  be  over-estimated.  To  the  statesman  and 
philanthropist,  as  well  as  the  scholar  and  business  man,  it  will  be  found  of  great  con 
venience  as  a  reference  book,  and  must  soon  be  considered  as  indispensable  to  a  library 
as  Webster's  Dictionary." — Lockport  Courier. 


WORKS  IN  PKEFARATION. 

PHILOSOPHERS  AND  ACTRESSES. 
By  ARSENE  HOUSSAYE.     With  beautifully-engraved  Portraits  of 
Voltaire  and  Mad.  Parabere.     Two  vols.,  12mo. 

COMPARATIVE  PHYSIOGNOMY; 

Or  Resemblances  between  Men  and  Animals.  By  J.  W.  REDFIELD, 
M.  D.  In  one  vol.,  8vo,  with  several  hundred  illustrations. 

ANCIENT  EGYPT  UNDER  THE  PHARAOHS. 
By  JOHN  KENDRICK,  M.  A.     In  2  vols.,  12mo. 

FATHER  MARQUETTE'S  DISCOVERY 

And  Exploration  of  the  Valley  and  River  of  the  Mississippi.  By 
JOHN  J.  SHEA.  With  fac-similes  and  a  copy  of  his  Map.  Now 
first  translated  from  the  original  manuscripts.  In  1  vol.,  8vo. 

THE  HISTORY  OF  THE  CRUSADES. 

By  JOSEPH  FRANCOIS  MICHAUD.  Translated  by  Robson.  Three 
vols.,  12mo. 

NEWMAN'S  REGAL  ROME. 

In  1  vol.,  12mo.     Price  75  cents. 

THE  CHILDREN  OF  LIGHT. 
A  new  work  by  CAROLINE  CHESEBRO',   author  of  "  Isa,  a  Pilgrim- 


new  work  by  UAROLINE  VJHESEBRO  ,   a^ 
age,"  and  "Dream  Land  by  Daylight." 


THE  CHE  V ALTERS  OF  FRANCE  ; 

From  the  Crusaders  to  the  Mareschals  of  Louis  XIV.  BY  HENRY 
WILLIAM  HERBERT.  One  vol.,  12mo. 

THE  PURITANS  OF  NEW  ENGLAND: 

An  Historical  Romance  of  the  Days  of  Witchcraft.  By  HENRY 
WILLIAM  HERBERT,  Author  of  "Cavaliers  of  England,"  "  Mar- 
maduke  Wyvil,"  &c.  One  vol.,  12mo,  price  $1.25. 

HOLLAND  AND  FLEMISH  PAINTERS. 

The  History  of  Painters  and  Painting  in  Holland  and  Flanders 
By  ARSENE  HOUSSAYE.  With  a  beautifully-engraved  Portrait 
of  Rubens,  from  the  picture  of  himself.  One  vol.,  12mo. 

THE  HISTORY  OF  THE  EIGHTEENTH  CENTURY. 

By  ARSENE  HOUSSAYE.     Four  vols.,  12mo,  with  Portraits. 


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